


Dean Winchester - House of Worship

by DeansDirtyPiehole



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, BDSM, Biting, Blow Jobs, Body Worship, Bondage, Breathplay, Choking, Cock Slut, Cock Worship, Come Shot, Come Swallowing, Comeplay, Cunnilingus, Dean Winchester Gives Oral Sex, Dean Winchester Has a Large Cock, Dean Winchester Talks Dirty, Dean Winchester is Loved, Dean Winchester is a God, Deepthroating, Dirty Talk, Dom Dean Winchester, Dom/sub, Dominance, Edgeplay, Exhibitionism, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Face-Fucking, Face-Sitting, Facials, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Kinky, Kinky Dean Winchester, Kissing, M/M, Master/Pet, Master/Servant, Master/Slave, Masturbation, Multi, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Orgy, Pain, Porn, Praise Kink, Punishment, Rimming, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, S&M, Sex, Sexual Content, Shameless Smut, Slapping, Slut Shaming, Smut, Spanking, Submission, Teabagging, Teasing, Torture, Vaginal Fingering, Vaginal Sex, Verbal Humiliation, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-18
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2020-06-29 23:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 28,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19840330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeansDirtyPiehole/pseuds/DeansDirtyPiehole
Summary: There is only one rule, one divine law that governs forever:In this house, we worship Dean Winchester.Set in an alternate universe, in which Dean Winchester is everyone’s religion. In which he receives all the love he deserves. Revered for what he is: pure perfection, a beacon of beauty, a god among men who exists to be worshiped and served.Specifically, a god of sex. He is sublime in every sense... but in the dirtiest and most dominant ways, above all else.In this world, being chosen to work in Dean's own house of worship is the ultimate privilege. Only a select few are granted admission, to swear to such a life of self-sacrifice, service, and submission.What if you are blessed enough to be one of them? What if you turn out to be Dean's favorite, when he knows that he should never let that happen? What then...?This is how your life in Dean Winchester's house of worship begins.┏┓┃┃╱╲  In┃╱╱╲╲ this╱╱╭╮╲╲house▔▏┗┛▕▔    we╱▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔▔╲worship Dean Winchester╱╱┏┳┓╭╮┏┳┓ ╲╲▔▏┗┻┛┃┃┗┻┛▕▔





	1. [Teaser]

**Author's Note:**

> *As one can tell from the description, this fic is going to be (mostly) pure, dirty, Dean-worshiping indulgence. I regret absolutely fucking nothing.*
> 
> Hello fellow Deanbitches!!! To those who are following my other ongoing fics ([SPN XXX](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17505986?view_full_work=true), [Deans Do Come True](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17848454?view_full_work=true)) — I haven't abandoned them, promise!! I just got a random surge of inspiration for this one, all of a sudden, and couldn't resist... I really hope you all will enjoy it :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo this post is just a teaser of a scene that I've written... a little taste of what's to come ;)
> 
> FYI, I threw in a ton of tags that I expect to write about, though most of them aren't featured yet in this teaser, and may not appear till later chapters... we'll see how it all plays out :D

"Tell me, Y/N," he orders, standing from his throne, taking a few slow steps toward you where you kneel upon the floor. "Have you ever worshiped anything... or anyone... ever before?"

_Oh God_ —the savage darkness in his tone... it fucking _kills_ you. Thrills you to the core and chills you to the bone. Your voice is weak within your throat, scarcely a whisper. "Yes—yes, sir."

At those words, a faint furrow forms in his forehead, a slight groove in each of his gorgeously golden-brown brows. His head cocks to the side, the emeralds in his eyes shining bright as he stares you down. Almost as if he's... curious. Almost as if he's _jealous_ , though you know that such a god as him could have no cause for envy.

Cursing yourself for your stupidity, you hasten to explain just what you mean. You've only ever worshiped Dean. To every question, he has always been the answer. "For longer than I can remember... I have worshiped you, my lord."

And then he smirks at you, full pink lips lifting in a sinful twist that makes your fucking toes curl. "Silly little girl," he snarls with a rasp that makes your heart beat ever faster. "No—you've worshiped an idea. You've worshiped pictures. But until this day, you'd never met your master."

It hits you now that you are soaking wet, just from the sheer force of his words. _Seriously_ — _what was God in heaven smoking when he made Dean Fucking Winchester? Such a sublime, supremely sexy bastard..._ You bite your lip, ashamed for even thinking of your king in such crude terms. "I—I am sorry, sir..."

"For what?" Dean interrupts.

_Mother of fuck, you love the way he shuts you up._ Like you're a desperate little idiot, a good-for-nothing slut. Lower than that—like you are nothing. Full stop. Always have been. And you know it, when you answer him. "Sorry for... for everything, my lord. My king."

He considers you for a moment. Then his hand starts reaching toward your face; you forget how to even keep breathing. "Mmm. ' _Everything_ '..." he echoes as he props his royal forefinger beneath your trembling chin. "That's a lazy excuse for an answer to such an important question, don't you think?"

_Well, um_ —Dean Winchester is _touching_ you—skin against skin. You're incapable of thinking anything.

"Everything..." he says again, as his finger begins to descend, drifting dangerously downward. "Such a... cheap little word." 

Your head tilts back a bit, on instinct, as your king traces a line toward the hollow of your throat, torturing every inch of your tender skin with nothing but the sting of his perfection. You adore the way it hurts.

"Cheap as dirt," he growls. You get the sense now, somehow, that he's speaking more of you than of that lazy little word. You're sure of it, dead sure, after what he then utters next. "Pathetic. Worthless."

_Yes, sir. Yes._ You accept just what he says, just what you are, in abject silence. To His Highness, the response is always yes.

"See, sweetheart—sometimes... words can _hurt_ ," he mutters, as he swiftly shifts his hand into a fist around your neck, encircling it tight, hard. Tighter. Harder. "They can be used to tease... to torture... to inflict pain... and to turn it into pleasure."

_Good God_ —touching you like this, Dean is already teaching all you will need to know, ever. Telling so well, and showing even better.

"Just how they are used..." he continues while ruthlessly squeezing the life out of you, "...determines just what they are worth."

Your reverent gaze remains fixed on his flawless face as he strangles your throat. His fist releases just before you choke. You almost wish he hadn't stopped— _almost_... and yet it's not your place to ever wish for anything, you know.

Something compels you then to speak; just what, you aren't sure. There is a fire in your heart, one that you've never known before. "Is—is that true of us too, sir?" you murmur, all your vocal cords still throbbing from the brute force of his fingers. "True of all your worshipers? That how we are used, by our master... is the measure of our worth?"

For whatever reason—maybe none—Dean didn't shut you up this time, you realize, while looking up at him with wide unblinking eyes. Instead he had just... listened, for a moment. Even if he'd known he shouldn't. 

Before breaking the brief silence, just then, he licks his lips and blinks. Considers you again. As if you're something worthy to consider. "Speaking out of turn," he scoffs, reminding you that you are not. And yet something about the way he cradles your face, for a fraction of an instant, seems to go against that thought. Almost as if that unknown fire in your heart... in his as well, it seems to burn. "Sweet little thing. You have so much to learn."

Your burning heart pounds hard and fast, each beat a prayer that you hope won't go unheard. "Thank you, my lord."

Without even speaking, he asks with the look on his face, the deep green of his gaze, what you're thanking him for. His thumb traces your lower lip, to catch each word that pours.

Yet words will never be enough, to give breath to the answer. The breadth of your gratitude toward him, the depth of your love. "...for more than I can say in words."

_The love is so deep that it hurts_ —though only on your own end, to be sure. Whereas for Dean Fucking Winchester... love is of no matter. This house of worship is supposed to be a place of pain and pleasure, a hotbed of hardcore sex, a den of sin so dirty that it's pure. You'd known it, the moment you stepped through the door. And you need to serve him, worship him, in that way, as you came for, right now more than ever before.

Dean reads your mind, the way he can by virtue of being so damn divine. It's only to his own that he is blind.

You had thanked him for more than you could say in words. His thumb upon your bottom lip begins to slowly slip inside your open mouth, now, as he answers. "Mmm. Then don't say anything, you filthy fucking whore," he dominantly purrs, lips curving up into that shadow of a smirk that never fails to fucking kill you, fill you to your deepest core. "Don't say a word. 'Cause that ain't what this pretty mouth of yours is for."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked this little teaser :D
> 
> If you did, I'd love to hear it!! Always super grateful for kudos and comments <3


	2. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiii Deanbitches! So this post is just a little prologue that explains the framework of this story's universe and sets the stage for everything to come... in future chapters we'll get to all the dirty smutty fun :D

When God made Dean Winchester, the system encountered an error.

The error was that... there were none. Not a flaw, not a fault to be found, in this mortal creation. Not one. The man was supposed to be human. But instead he was a being more divine than any deity, a thing of beauty destined to shine brighter than the sun.

And the Lord was terrified, of what He'd done. The fatal mistake that no god should ever make: _create perfection_. It was an error that endangered the entire system of existence, threatened each thread in the fabric of the universe. In spite of all His mighty powers, even God could not reverse what had occurred. Prevent Dean Winchester from growing into what he would become. From a cherubic child, to an absolute Adonis in his adolescence... and then, in his prime, a pure paragon. A living, breathing god among men.

That was why God on high was terrified. This man, this _Dean_ , would be a god in his own right. A supreme beacon born to be worshiped and serviced, regarded with reverence and awe. 

Specifically, a sex god.

And this, the Lord could not abide. Even God's own flesh and blood—His only sister, the Darkness—was destined to become obsessed, infatuated, with this mortal so divine. So He condemned Dean to a twisted fate, a tortured life. Doomed him to die and be revived hundreds of times. Cursed him to be forever blind to his own beauty, and to see himself as something that deserved to be despised. _Dean Winchester_ , He decreed, _must hate himself, more than anyone else, and suffer all his life through the worst pain imaginable, till his damned soul burns in hell_.

God hated Dean above all things. Punished him just for existing. All because He feared him. Envied him.

... But what if He had not? What if He weren't a jealous god? What if the Lord had let Dean Winchester be loved, as he deserved, by himself just as much as by everyone else...

Maybe, in another universe, the Lord embraced His error. Accepted the existence of a being that was literally flawless. Allowed for all the world to worship at his altar.

And if you were blessed enough to be born in that universe... this is the story of how you would worship Dean Winchester.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So who else wants a one-way ticket to this universe?!?! :P
> 
> Always grateful for kudos and comments, if you're enjoying this! <3
> 
> Also, FYI, just in case anyone is wondering — I considered whether I should capitalize the 'H' in 'He'/'Him' for Dean as well as God, given that he too is a god and all... but then I thought not. I feel like Dean, even the self-loving godly version of him in this fic, would find that kind of thing pretentious and it's not what he would want. Also, since I'll be referring to him so often throughout this fic (whereas God not as often at all), it'll definitely be easier for me to just stick with the lowercase words. Otherwise I would probably forget to capitalize sometimes, and in any event, even if I stayed consistent, the capitalized terms might just start looking silly/awkward. So I just wanted to note that, for anyone who might've wondered :)


	3. Chosen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello fellow Dean-worshipers!! So as a heads up, this chapter is pretty short, and doesn't include any smut just yet — the stage still has to be set, for all that's to come... But I'll try not to keep you guys waiting too long ;)

_"You have been chosen."_

The words continue ringing in your ears once you have woken. Filling your heart with the echo of those life-altering words that have been spoken. All the world looks somehow... _different_ , as your dazed eyes flutter open. It feels like holy fire has been set to every nerve ending, a tingling sensation buzzing all across your skin. The heat is hottest right between your legs, throbbing and raging as if you've come off a night of wild sex, and there's a searing sting on your left shoulder, for some reason...

You know what that reason is. So many nights, you've dreamt of this— _exactly_ this, based on the stories that you've heard, of how selection goes. Until this morning, that was all they ever were, though. Dreams. Worthless wet dreams that never quite lived up to what they seemed, to what you'd wished that they would mean: a chance to meet in person and devote your life to servicing your one true king, the golden god named Dean. Young girls throughout the world dream of this very thing, night after night for all their lives, a fantasy that can come true for any woman after she has turned eighteen.

And you are past that threshold. To the date, you are Y/A years old. Yes, it's your birthday—and this present you've received, this gift from destiny, is so far beyond anything you could dare to imagine. To a simple bitch like you, this... _this_ is notsomething that is supposed to happen. 

Yet so it has. It's _real_ , you confirm as you rise out of bed, standing to look at yourself in the mirror, seeing and feeling the signature handprint seared onto your shoulder. The mark of the angel who scouts the world, searching for worshipers worthy of personally serving his divine lord. In your sleep, it was this angel's clear blue gaze that you had seen, his richly low-pitched voice that you had heard. Now your skin is raised and red, where he has marked you as selected—the scar is just as fresh as it is sacred, flesh still stinging from the imprint of his fingers.

Running your own hand in awe across your blessed shoulder, you can't help but wonder... _why on earth, why in hell and in heaven, have you been chosen?_ Sure, you go to church, at least twice every day: the Cathedral of Lord Winchester around the corner, where the locals flock to worship at his altar. Every night, you pray, thanking his holiness for the sweet privilege, touching your soaking wet cunt while you gaze lovingly on his image, the posters and picture frames lining the walls of this humble apartment where you live, all by yourself, wasting your life away. You have a low-key job that barely pays, and it's been ages since you last went on a date. All your family is dead; you don't have many friends; you devote pretty much your whole life to your one true religion. Worshiping Dean is where your world begins and ends. 

Your late mother had always said that, in some other universe—a dimension in which there was no Lord Winchester—surely you would have been a smart, successful woman on your own terms. A high-powered professional, or a happy wife and mother. Maybe both; maybe you would've had it all. And maybe she was right, as usual. Despite having spent so much time daydreaming of your idol, distracted and dangerously close to drowning in your drool, you had excelled in every class you took in school. Plenty of people have told you that you are beautiful. Funny and kind and generally lovable. 

Or at least they used to say that, in the times before you'd started going so hardcore, existing only to adore your lord, hiding inside your blissful little Dean-worshiping bubble. Aside from this lifestyle, you have qualities and skills that might have led you to a 'normal' life, functioning and fulfilled.

... But in this world? Well, ever since you were a young girl and first laid eyes on a photo of Dean Winchester— _the pure perfection of his features, down to the placement of each precious freckle on his flawless face, all the raw power radiating from his glorious green gaze, enough to make you melt and kneel before him as your master, even when you were just looking at a motherfucking picture_... some part of you knew, from that fateful moment all the way back then, that any chance of living life on your own terms was screwed to hell. Knew that you were destined to love him, to serve him, forever, above and beyond all else. At the expense of everything. Especially yourself.

Everyone in all the world worships Lord Winchester, as far as you can tell. But _you_ take worship to a whole other level. You suppose that's why you caught the eye of the lord's right-hand angel. Why you were selected, heralded by the celestial voice of Castiel. After all, angels are supposed to be merciful— _what better way could there be to show mercy toward someone so wretched and pitiful?_

But the time for self-pity is over now. It's time to leave your life behind, to bid the world you know goodbye, to be prepared for an appointed escort of the lord to soon arrive... and sweep you off to your new home, to your new house.

_The_ house.

You have heard stories of the fabled house of worship—more like myths—you have no clue about it, really. Only the chosen do, the chosen few. For no outsider is allowed within a hundred-mile radius. The house and the space that surrounds... they are all hallowed grounds. Everything that the lord ever touches is holy.

And soon—if he accepts you in his house, chooses to bless you with his touch... that is what _you_ will be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're all excited for the journey ahead :D
> 
> Always grateful for kudos and comments! <3


	4. Ready

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiii Dean-worshipers! Sooo this chapter went in a direction that I wasn't really expecting, but I had a ton of fun writing it and hope you'll enjoy it :D as a heads up, it's sort of girl-on-girly, but it's all about Dean ultimately (as is everything) and it ends on that note. I was originally going to write this scene without any F/F undertones at all, but in this part of the story, I think it just works well... I'm like 99% strictly into dick (Dean/Jensen's dick to be specific), so if you're not into the F/F stuff, I get it. You can maybe just skim it to get the gist, and I promise the sex will still be mostly M/F in the rest of the fic :) 
> 
> P.S. I chose the woman who plays the role in this scene not so much based on the character's relationship with Dean, or lack thereof, but more so on the relationship between the actors in reality. If that doesn't make sense, it probably will after you read :P

"Are you ready?"

With a startled gasp, you turn, caught off guard by the voice you've just heard. By the presence of the unexpected guest who has just magically appeared right here beside your bathroom mirror. It's a woman, as stylishly dressed as she is strikingly beautiful; she's so stunning it seems supernatural. Somehow you get the sense that she's no mortal. _Maybe an angel_ , you tell yourself, _wrapped in the skin of her vessel_. 

As for you—wrapped in nothing but a towel, soaking from your recent shower— _even more so from all the dirty thoughts of Dean you had indulged in there_... all you can do is stand and stare, at this celestial stranger with her flowing auburn hair.

Her bright chestnut eyes blink at you expectantly. 

You clear your throat, remembering then that she had asked if you are ready. Though you have no clue who she is exactly, you can guess just why she's come: surely she is your designated chaperone, sent to whisk you away to your new home. And for that journey, you are most certainly ready. Somehow you summon the composure to respond, voice calm and steady. "As I'll ever be."

She purses her lips, glossed a rosy shade of scarlet. Gives you a quick but thorough once-over, sizing you up like a prize that she has been sent to deliver to her king. Which is just what you are, you realize, shivering beneath the damp towel you're wearing. Feeling fully naked. You hold your breath as she inspects you like an object, then release it when she finally speaks.

"Good," she says, maybe as a result of her review, a statement of your value. Or maybe just using that weak little word as a meaningless manner of speech. Maybe both; you can't tell. "My name is Anael, and I'm your designated... well, guardian angel, if you will. You'll be coming with me."

 _Oh, you most definitely will be_ , you imagine shamelessly— _coming in more ways than one, with her looking so good and smelling like heaven—probably from all the time she's spent beside Lord Winchester, sucking down his sweet juices and soaking up his godly scent_... Though you've never had the hots for any woman, anyone at all other than Dean, something about this angel just screams total fucking _queen_.

"Y-yes, ma'am," you murmur, trembling visibly, gaze lowered, barely brave enough to look at her in all her beauty. Blush is rising to your face, which is already flushed and heated from the shower you've just taken. You hope the color in your cheeks is a flattering shade of pink...

Anael's bright brown gaze subjugates you in every way as she surveys your bare, self-conscious skin. "Castiel chose well, I see," she says, the simple praise sending shockwaves of pleasure through your thrumming heart and throbbing pussy. Even more pleasing than the praise, though, is her tone: superior and condescending. You're sick enough to get off on that kind of thing. "You're very pretty. With obedient, submissive instincts. Just his type, I think."

You blink. "The angel has a type?" you blurt out, raising your eyes, unable to believe she might've been talking about... _No; there's no way she could mean..._

"Oh, I wasn't speaking of the angel. Cas'stype is Dean," she claims on his behalf. With a low little laugh, because you should've known such an obvious fact. "The devoted bluebird is in love with his lord. Just as all of us are, always have been. Lord Winchester is, after all, our one true perfect king..."

 _Yes, yes of course_ , you agree in silence as she steps toward you, so close you can feel the glowing aura of her grace against your skin.

Her pretty lips curve up into a subtle smile as she finishes her sentence. "So he's everyone's type; you should know this, especially since you've been chosen," she reminds you in a way that makes you think you shouldn't have been. At least till the words she says next, in this mind-blowing moment. "What I meant is that you are sure to please... _him_."

At that, you can't help but start suddenly collapsing, thankfully catching yourself against the ledge behind you, gripping for dear life onto the bathroom sink. _Great—way to come off as graceful during your goddamned first appraisal by a drop-dead gorgeous angel_ , you self-critically think.

"Well, that was elegant," Anael mocks you as if you are nothing, despite her initial approval; maybe she's already second-guessing her assessment. You could never be nearly as graceful as she is, by her very nature—that much is undoubtedly true. She pauses to consider you, the way a queen would judge the worth of dirt beneath her shoe. "He might find your clumsiness cute. Or he might just... dismiss you."

A whimper of literal pain escapes off of your lips. It hurts just to imagine it. Which of course makes you look even more pathetic. _Fucking shit_...

Of course, the angel notices. "Not even at the house yet and you're already a moaning little bitch," she teases, tossing her lustrous hair over her shoulder with a flourish. "If only you knew what the lord does when his toys... make too much noise."

 _Holy mother of goodness_. You don't know, but you can guess. And everything you're guessing gets you fucking soaking wet...

Anael takes a step closer then, flooding your senses with her subtle yet powerful scent. "Oh, you're precious. You know I can read every dirty filthy thought that's running through your head?"

Your throat contracts in a loud, graceless gulp. _What? Well, fuck..._

"Pretty much all of them involve you in the same position," she goes on. "Bare naked before your beautiful beloved king. Head bowed low... down on your knees in submission..."

Her words begin to pull you down like gravity, causing your knees to buckle more than just a little bit, your grip to loosen on the cold ledge of the sink.

"Go ahead. Kneel down naked. Like a desperate little pet. Give in to your dirtiest instincts," she directs, her voice as merciless as it is mesmerizing. "Lord Winchester isn't here with us... but that doesn't mean you can't practice."

 _Shit_ —every word off of her perfectly glossed lips is pure, glorious magic... by this point, you've become her total bitch. It's as if she's channeling all of the force of her king, existing here in front of you as a vessel through which to worship him. Before you even know what's happened, your damp body towel has dropped to the hard tile floor and you've sunk to your knees like a two-dollar whore.

The angel stares down at you with a superior smirk while you gawk reverently up at her. "Well, you sure know how to follow orders," she provocatively purrs as she takes in your naked form. She looks pleased, seems to like what she sees... but at the same time, it's quite clear that she knows just how much more beautiful her body is than yours.

Her left hand reaches for your head, raking through your shower-wet hair with her manicured fingers, as her right hand begins hiking up her mulberry silk dress, exposing her high-fashion heeled boots and long sculpted legs. Then she rests one of her feet against the bathtub ledge, so you can see her lacy panties as she slowly slips her fingers in and starts touching herself. From this angle, you're not blessed enough to get a clear view of her celestial sex, but you're sure it shines brighter than heaven and hotter than hell—you can just tell—her pussy lips are probably like rose petals, exquisitely pink and exuding a sweet floral smell, glistening with her slick honeyed juices... every inch of Anael is fucking flawless. You'd never thought that any cunt would turn you on, but your guardian angel is apparently a motherfucking goddess and you're utterly obsessed.

She thrusts two fingers in her slit, thumb playing with her clit, and throws her head back with a long, sensuous sigh. "Mmmm... do you have any clue how many times our lord has fucked this pretty cunt of mine?" she moans as her fingers slide deeper inside her own tight juicy hole. "Oh, his cock is _so_ goddamn divine. You know—some of his sweet come must be stuck deep inside, from the last time he plunged his perfect cock between these thighs... Mmm, bet you'd die for a taste. Bet you'd love slurping all over my soaking wet pussy with that slutty mouth, till I squirt all his come out, all over your face..."

 _Holy fucking fuck_. Though your queen is holding your head firmly in place, you can't help but react to the soul-crushing hotness of _that_. You arch and strain your neck, slobbery tongue hanging out of your gaping wide mouth, reaching to grope the lean toned muscles of her legs...

And then she pulls her hand out of her crotch and slaps your face, all of a sudden, getting your cheek wet with her heavenly juices. And your cunt wet with your own, dripping with lust. " _No_. That was a test."

You're still reeling from the shock of what just happened, and from how intensely you got off on it, as you gape up at your goddess.

Anael strokes her thumb against your freshly smacked cheek, smearing her pussy juice over your face as if it's fucking finger paint. "You'll have to learn restraint," she scolds you like she owns you. Though your whole being belongs to your king, somehow you get the sense that he would want you to bow down and give yourself over to this beautiful queen, right about now; somehow you just know that it's true. And when she keeps on talking like this, it's all you can do. "Resisting your own desires, knowing that they don't even matter—existing in a constant state of self-denial, submission, and pain... for the sake of the pleasure it brings to the one that you serve... _that_ is the best and only way to truly worship and obey. And that's what you want—isn't it, you desperate fucking cunt? To serve as a good little slave?"

She sweeps her slick, sticky fingertips over your lips, letting you service each one with a deep, passionate kiss. You moan out in bliss as you savor the taste of her juices. "Yes, goddess..."

"Good," she pronounces, smacking her smooth palm against your cheek again, this time more of a sharp little tap than a punishing slap. "Then snap out of it, bitch. Teasing you about how much you want to worship my superior fucking cunt is super fun, but that isn't the purpose of my visit."

You blink as Anael sets both of her feet back onto the ground and smooths her silk skirts down, beckoning you back up to your own feet with a quick curl of her fingertips. Following her silent instruction on the instant, you lick your lips. Lapping up the precious traces of her flavor as you ask a stupid question—her purpose here is obvious, but in this moment you have been reduced to nothing but a brainless piece of shit. "Oh. Then... then what is it?"

Her flawless brows arch up in an expression of exasperated judgment. "To take you to your king, you fucking idiot," she reminds you as she reaches in her pocket to pull out a swath of pure white fabric. It's a dress, you realize as she extends it toward you and motions for you to take it. You hadn't been aware that her own outfit even had pockets, let alone big enough for a whole other dress to fit. _Must be some kind of angelic magic._ "Here, wear this. It's the standard uniform for new initiates. The white represents the clean slate of your life as Lord Winchester's slave. If you're lucky, it'll be tattered and stained—or better yet, torn off completely—in a matter of days."

Bowing your head in obedience, trying not to whimper like a slut as the thought of being stripped and ravaged by your king sets a damn fire in your cunt, you take the humble piece of cloth and put it on. It's a flimsy little thing, covering barely any of your skin. But it fits perfectly as soon as you slip in, draping over your frame and clinging to your shape in certain places in a way you pray is flattering.

"You know, I don't usually do the whole chaperone thing," Anael declares as you glance up to see her looking over your shoulder, to admire her own image in the mirror. "I mean—it's so _beneath_ me, given I'm Dean's favorite, his true fucking queen. He typically sends lesser angels to pick up his new initiates, so you're really very lucky. Our king figured sending me on one of these visits would ease suspicion."

You're not sure what she's talking about, but you figure your job is just to stare at how stunning she is, stand still, and shut your mouth.

She rolls her eyes royally. "Would you please stop eye-worshiping me? I know I'm painfully gorgeous, but you'll have to just get over it. Yes, Dean will love hearing how I dominated you with the idea of sucking all his come out of my pussy, but he won't want you entering his house looking like... like _this_. Like you've been totally fucked up before your first day as his bitch."

Lowering your head in shame, you wring your hands and answer her the only way you can. "Yes—yes, I'm sorry, goddess..."

"Stop that," Anael snaps, shutting you up with another little face slap. "Listen—despite whatever happened, I'm supposed to be your guardian, your friend. Guide you through this whole initiate experience. So you'll have to start talking. For instance, if you're curious about something, you don't just bite your tongue and dream about licking my cunt. You ask me what I meant. Understand?"

You nod—because you should—but she's so _hot_ , and smells so good, _goddamn_...

She shakes her head and huffs a sigh through her nose. "Maybe you're a lost cause," she mutters. "Whatever. You didn't ask the question, but I'll still answer. You wanted to know what I meant by suspicion, hm?"

Still stuck in stupid mode, you simply nod again.

"I'll let you in on some juicy house gossip, then," she says, reaching to set a few stray hairs in place, as your damp tresses air-dry around your face. "Right now I am Dean's queen, but, well... I haven't always been. And even now, I'm not _supposed_ to be. Not really."

Well, that certainly piques your curiosity— _who else possibly could be?_ There's just an aura of supreme superiority about her, one that you can't imagine any other woman surpassing. Whatever it is, and regardless of whatever she means, you figure Anael's power has all just rubbed off from her time spent with Dean as his queen. Other girls may be just as pretty, if not even more so—but for you, her status as a goddess isn't really about her own beauty. Everything is about _him_ , your one and only god, ultimately.

"Anyway—I've probably said too much already. You should know that you really are very pretty," she states, gently patting the side of your face. "You'll have to know your worth, deep down, if you plan to survive past your first day. Suffice it to say that once you enter the house, a lifetime of not only sex and submission, salvation and sin in the form of pure love for our king—but also of drama and competition, of envy and hate among his many slaves... is what awaits."

At those chilling words of hers, you find yourself more terrified than you have ever been in all your life... and yet somehow, you've never felt so strong, deep down inside. More certain that you're headed for the house, the home, where you truly belong.

Even though she is supposed to be your guardian, you're not yet certain whether you can really, truly trust this angel. But you do know you can trust yourself. Your own heart, the heart that belongs to the king whom you have always loved more than anyone else, more than any damn thing. All that matters is that you will always trust, always love, _him_.

You wonder now if Anael can read your mind. If she can, she won't tell. For the moment, she'll just play her part as your guide to your new home, your guardian angel. "So I ask you again, Y/N—are you ready?"

The answer is the same, as when she asked you first... yet different. In the way you say it, and in what you mean. Despite whatever happens—no matter how submissive and inferior you may have seemed, to her, and maybe for a moment thought you really were, all caught up in your dirtiest instincts and your darkest dreams—deep down, you _do_ know your true worth. You've always known that you live only for your king and bow before no other queen. 

_Yes, you are ready. As ever._ So you tell her. "Always have been."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this and that you're excited for what's coming next! We'll finally arrive at the House of Worship :D
> 
> Always grateful for kudos and comments! <3
> 
> P.S. Readers of DDCT could probably see that there was some overlapping inspiration between fics going on here, after that last DDCT chapter ;) I know at least some of you were into the idea of Jensen/Danneel/reader, and I guess that was part of the influence on how this scene ultimately went! Anna was actually going to be the reader's escort/guardian angel, instead of Anael, at first, and there wouldn't have been any F/F action with her in this chapter. But I think this works better and helped me to build some ideas for the rest of the fic, in terms of the whole slave-vs.-slave drama/competitive power dynamic... anyway! I hope you enjoyed it :)


	5. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiii Deanbitches! I'm so sorry that updates have been less frequent lately... life is still keeping me super busy :( But I finally finished this scene and hope you'll enjoy it!!
> 
> As a heads up, there is no Dean just yet, but the reader will meet him in the next chapter for sure :) This chapter is her arrival at the house of worship, so her guardian angel gives her a little tour...

"Well, here we are."

You blink and struggle to regain your balance; though the journey to your new home took a split second, you can tell you've traveled far. To the birthplace of Lord Winchester: a sacred town called Lawrence. With a quick touch to your forehead, in an instant, your guardian angel had swept you across all this distance. To you as a mere mortal, this type of teleportation doesn't feel natural at all—your stomach is churning and vision is swimming with stars. But none of that matters. Because, as she said... _here you are_.

Here at the house. Heaven on earth, upon these hallowed grounds. For the first time in all your life, it feels like you are well and truly home now.

Your lips part breathlessly, one soft word slipping out. "Wow."

Before your awestruck eyes, the house of worship towers tall and proud, all gleaming white marble with columns reaching high toward the cloudless Kansas sky. The biggest and most beautiful building you've ever seen. Set amidst vast gardens where the flowers blossom always, where the fresh-cut grass and lush leaves match the color of the lord's gaze, the most gorgeous shade of green. It's far more magical than you had ever dreamed. More of a palace or a temple, rather than a house, it seems. Only fitting, for such a divine king as Dean.

"Quite a level up from your shabby apartment, isn't it," Anael teases, gloating in the glory of this place where she has staked her claim as queen.

Your head dips in a nod, timid and low. "It's so..."

"Big? Beautiful? Breathtaking? Yes, all of those things. Much like our king," the angel chimes in, bright brown eyes twinkling just at the mention of him. "This place is much more like a temple or a palace than a house, I know."

That was exactly what your first impression had been. _Maybe she can read your mind_ , you think. She's all the more intimidating, if so. 

"It started as a house, though," she goes on, as she leads you across the perfectly mowed lawn. "Simple two-story affair. Dean grew up there, with his family. Had a charmed childhood, really. The Winchesters were as happy as any family can be."

That piques your curiosity—for some reason, you had always imagined that Dean had come into existence by magic or something, the way that deities in classical mythology might spring out of the sea. You realize, in this moment, that the notion was quite silly. He is human, after all. Despite being divine in every way, the method of his birth must have been mortal. It's easy to forget, given that Lord Winchester's worshipers across the world are much more focused on his superhuman beauty than his life story. It matters to you, though. You're curious about him as a man, whether or not you are supposed to be. You want to learn about your master. Everything there is to know.

Anael knows a thing or two, apparently. You ask her, starting with a simple question, hoping she'll be kind enough to answer. "Where are they now? His family."

"Not here, obviously," the angel states without a pause. "His mother and his father both died peacefully, of natural causes, when Dean was a young adult. He has one younger brother, Sam, who went out to the west coast years ago for law school. Now Sammy lives in sunny California with a loving wife, two children. Living the normal apple pie life, that whole thing. It's what Dean always wanted for him."

 _Interesting_ , you think as you approach the white stone steps ascending toward the grand front entrance. "And how..."

"How did a humble boy from Lawrence grow up to become an entire religion? How did Dean's life transform, into what it is now?" Anael cuts you off. "Well, I've already told you enough. You should know: the lord doesn't like whores who ask too many questions. Especially new initiates. Your job is to look pretty and shut up."

You do as told, biting down on your bottom lip. Try to focus on savoring the moment of arriving at the holy house of worship. Your soles are bare, as you follow the angel up the stairs, the solid marble cool beneath your feet. A slave like you has no right to wear shoes; thankfully, when the surface underfoot is so pleasantly smooth, there is no need. Still clad in nothing but the simple white dress Anael had given you, you pray that you look pretty.

"So I'll give you a little tour," your guardian angel announces as the two of you step through the open doors. Into a whole new world—a scene of luxury and grandeur, beyond anything you've ever seen before. Setting foot in this place takes your breath away, and you've only just seen the foyer. Throughout the room are a few fellow worshipers, most of them wearing the same white silk uniform. New initiates fulfilling their duties as slaves, scrubbing and cleaning the sumptuous space. When Anael struts in, they all bow their heads in silence, step aside to make way. The queen carries on, her fashionable heels clicking against the polished floor. "Not every room, of course. That would take days. Just the quarters that are on the way, to the throne room where you'll meet the lord."

Your heart completely forgets how to beat, at those words. Though you'd known this was coming, that you would be meeting your king... hearing that it's actually going to happen strikes you like a bomb going off in your core.

The angel just snickers as you stumble over your feet, hastening to keep up with her elegant pace. It's even harder to stay steady when the whole house is infused with the most heavenly fragrance you've ever smelled, hitting your senses like a magic spell, heavy and sweet as it pervades the sacred space. You could get drunk on this, you think— _it's so incredibly intoxicating_...

"That's the essence of our king. In case you're wondering," Anael tells you, taking a long deep breath herself, to soak it in. "The head witch cast a spell, so that this whole place could be filled with his delicious scent. His musk and his sweat... traces of leather on his skin, his sweet breath laced with whiskey and coffee and mint... of course, the smell is even better coming off of him, fresh from the source. But we can't all constantly be in his presence. So we'll take what we can get. Isn't it just pure heaven?"

" _God_ yes..." you sigh, taking another whiff, so giddy you could die. You're curious about this so-called 'head witch,' but know better than to try and ask about her. Just keep shuffling along behind your queen like an obedient little bitch.

"Anyway. So that was the foyer," the angel says, reaching the far end of the room and stepping through another set of open doors. 

The two of you enter a long spacious hall, with gilded picture frames along the walls and rows of lifelike statues standing tall. Your feet feel small upon the vast red velvet carpet sprawled across the floor. You pause to admire the art as you pass, and then suddenly gasp—for those are not paintings or sculptures. They are living, breathing women. Stark naked, standing or sitting in silence, upon pedestals or behind panes of glass. The room is like a museum of porn, a collection of Dean's pretty little whores. The king's playthings. If it weren't for the occasional blink, they would look like goddamned porcelain dolls, you think. It should be creepy... yet it's not at all, somehow, here in this house. For this is how these worshipers are meant to serve: they exist only as property of the lord.

"And now we're passing through the gallery," the queen states casually. "These are the skanks who live to be objectified by Dean. To the extreme. For some of them, this is a punishment—in those cases, it's typically just temporary. For others, though, their service here is voluntary. They see it as a privilege. Fulfilling their kinkiest dreams."

You don't doubt it; most of these ladies are genuinely happy here, it seems. _And why shouldn't they be?_ There are quite a few busty Asian beauties who appear as if straight off the pages of adult magazines, a whole slew of cute strippers dripping with daddy issues, a ravishing redhead who resembles Daphne from the Scooby Doo cartoons. These are all the types of women that teenaged Dean must have loved jerking off to, you presume. Back in the days before the world was his to rule. At the center of the room is one of the most eye-catching live statues: a blonde bombshell who looks a lot like a professional porn star, striking an explicitly X-rated pose. She apparently starred in Latina-themed pornos—the pose involves tacos.

"That's Carmelita. One of Dean's favorite porn stars from Casa Erotica," Anael tells you, passing by a mirror and briefly admiring her own reflection. She notices that the obscene pose with the tacos has still captured your attention. "Don't stare too long; it's rude. It's not your place to gawk at his collection. That's something only our king has the right to do."

Bowing your head in shame, you notice then that the mirror you're passing, encased in an ornate golden frame, is being held up by a lovely young woman. And then you see as well that there are others kneeling and crouching throughout the gallery in the most degrading positions: waiting to serve as seats and side tables and footrests, longing only to be crushed beneath the lord in all his holiness. Like human furniture. Or subhuman furniture, as it were.

"Some property exists to be admired. Whereas others have a more practical function to serve," the queen snickers, stripping off her stylish jacket and throwing it carelessly onto a nearby slavegirl serving as a coat hanger. "In case you're worried for their health—you shouldn't be. They take breaks, naturally. To eat, and sleep, and worship at the lord's feet. You know, the necessities. But otherwise, this is how they live their pathetic little lives. Until the king assigns them to some other purpose, to some other form of service. If and when he so decides."

At that, you move into the next room, still trying your best to keep up with her stride. On top of Lord Winchester's heavenly scent, your senses are now blessed with the savory fragrance of sizzling burgers and fries, followed by the warming aroma of freshly baked pie. Apple, sweet cherry, banana cream and blueberry—every flavor you could possibly imagine. Pretty girls are everywhere you turn, all busy cooking up a storm, some dressed in slutty waitress outfits, others wearing nothing but aprons. Or simply nothing.

"This is the kitchen," Anael announces as the two of you walk in. Passing by a bowl full of whipped topping, she dips her manicured finger right in, then indulgently sucks off the creamy white dollop. _Like the way she surely slurps Dean's godly come off of the tip of his delicious dick_ , you think... just the sight of such a sinfully suggestive act is now awakening inside of you a goddamn whipped cream kink. "The bitches working here are all about the whole domestic service thing. They exist to feed our king—to cook his favorite dishes, treats, the stuff he loves to eat. Then serve it up to him on silver platters. These slaves live to please, for Dean's pleasure is all that matters."

As you follow her through the kitchen, taking in the sights and scents, your mouth uncontrollably waters. You would kill for a bite, or a drink—bottles of liquor line the shelves, quality whiskey that must go down with a satisfying sting. Glasses of ice cold beer are set upon the counters, liquid amber bright and tempting, white foam frothing. Yet more than anything, your thirst is for your king. You wonder how many more rooms you will pass till you finally meet him... and given that the servants here are cooking quite a lot, you also wonder how Dean can manage to eat so damn much, and yet still maintain the physique of a god.

"He doesn't eat everything," Anael answers your unspoken question. "If a slave serves up a dish that doesn't please him, after his first taste, he'll spit on it and shove it in her face. Then she has to walk the halls wearing the stains of her failure, wallowing in shame. These kinky bitches usually get off on that; when Dean is the one dishing out the punishment, they can't really be blamed."

 _Well, of course not_ , you silently agree, soaking wet just at the thought—the twisted slut you are, you'd definitely feel the same.

"But you know, although he doesn't eat everything... _damn_ does he love to drink," the angel tells you with a sexy little wink as you two leave the kitchen. An especially dirty tone enters her voice as she opens the door. "Which brings us to the next room on our tour."

This room is darker; that's the first thing you notice, adjusting your eyes with a few rapid blinks. The next thing you notice is that there are dozens of girls kneeling down on the cold tile floor. Naked, of course. But in this house that's not strange at all. What strikes you is that they are all lined up against the walls, down on their knees with hands resting submissively upon their thighs, mouths permanently open wide, in such a way that you can tell they must be meant to serve one purpose... living, breathing urinals.

Your throat contracts in a loud gulp. Maybe you should be appalled, but all that you feel in this moment is a rush of pure arousal.

"This is one of _many_ bathrooms in the house," the queen says, smirking at the whorish look upon your face, your gaping open mouth. "All these slaves exist as toilets, live to swallow down Dean's godly juices. There is nothing more delicious."

Oh, you don't doubt it. You can only pray that you'll be blessed enough to get a taste, someday...

Anael approaches one of the girls, the prettiest, tracing the tip of her finger across the slave's glossy pink lips. "Hmm..." she hums with a sensuous flick of her tongue. "I could stop to take a piss—for any of these sluts, it would be quite a privilege, given that I'm the king's main bitch."

The toilet slut's bottom lip convulses in an eager twitch. She _wants_ to drink this angel's piss, lap up that sweet cunt with her slutty little tongue, the cunt the lord has fucked so goddamn often... that much is painfully obvious.

And so, of course, the queen decides to torture her, let her stew in her thirst. "...but I don't really feel like it," she says, with a lighthearted shrug, leaving the slave with a sadistic smile and a patronizing pat on the top of her head. "Besides—we shouldn't waste any more time. We're almost at your destination."

 _Holy fuck_. At those words, your whole soul explodes in a surge of anticipation. As you and Anael exit the room, into a corridor, at the far end of which awaits a grandiose gold-plated set of double doors... although the doors are closed, you know what is in store. That this moment is everything you've ever dreamt of, everything you live for. Dean Winchester is past those doors, sitting in all his glory on his throne, the heart of his house, your new home—your _true_ home... of that, you've never been more sure.

The time has finally come for you to meet the lord.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this and that you're excited for what's coming next! :D
> 
> Always grateful for kudos and comments! <3


	6. Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiii Deanbitches :) So this is when the reader finally meets Dean!! Which means that this chapter includes the content from the teaser (posted as Chapter 1), in the middle of the scene. Hope you all enjoy the read!

From the moment you step in, it's fucking heaven. _Holy hell_ , you think in silence to yourself, already overwhelmed— _you haven't even met him_.

Just a few seconds ago, you had been standing at the threshold of the throne room, all alone. And when those grand double doors opened, you'd just known... that would be when your life began.

_And so it has._ Your heart has stopped; your breath has halted in a gasp. Before you know it, then, as if in the same instant, at the sight of His Highness, your heart sets to beating all over again, new blood and new breath filling you hard and fast.

The distance between you and him is vast. In every sense. The space, for one: the regal red carpet that's cast across the marble floor, to lay the path between you and the throne. Yet there is so much more than that. He is your everything, while you are nothing but a filthy little plaything, put on earth for him to own. The sum of all your parts is worth less than the lowest speck of dirt beneath his boot, and that's a fact. It hits you like a hammer to the heart, heavy and hard, ripping you right apart. You're already dizzy from the impact. And yet all you want is another attack.

For so long, longer than you can even remember, you've dreamt of this moment. Of finally being in the presence of your divine king. Of _him_. Now here you are, alone together, as the doors behind you close, the two of you so close and yet so far...

Alone together with none other than Dean Winchester.

He knows your name. He knows because he has been told. Soon he will speak it from his seat of sculpted gold. This is how any new initiate's first welcome, in this house of worship, always has to go. _Unless Dean rejects the new guest, right away upon entrance, before even reaching that point_ , you remind yourself then with a sharp jolt of horror. You know it has happened before. All you can do is pray with every fiber of your being that he won't... 

Thankfully, today, your prayers shall not be ignored.

"Y/N," his voice thunders across the room. Husky and rich, a royal sound resounding far beyond its volume. It strikes you like whiskey, but darker and thicker. Like some other honey-laced liquor: smooth and sweet enough to soothe, yet strong and searing hot enough to seal your fucking doom. 

Then he says it again. Your name. Which makes you wonder, for a moment, if he always says it twice... but it is not your place to wonder anything; you have no rights. You know this. No doubt His Highness won't soon let you forget.

His gleaming green eyes, you realize, are on yours all the while, his luscious lips set in a curve you wouldn't dare to call a smile. _For to imagine that your presence brings him happiness, pleasure, in so much as the smallest measure_... you can't dare imagine that. Just fucking _can't_. 

Dean sits upon his gilded seat in rugged blue jeans, nothing else, his sculpted upper body bare for you to see, even more flawless than in all your hottest dreams. He looks so comfortable, so utterly at ease. It's effortless for him to just exist like this, a god among his subjects, sovereign and supreme. Only he can make plain denim look like royal garb fit for a king, especially when he has such a mighty scepter sheathed within, the massive meat in his crotch straining visibly against the seams. Surely it hasn't... _grown_ , just in the past few seconds since you entered and approached the throne—he cannot be turned on just by the sight of you like that... _surely that can't be an erection in his pants..._

His silky honey-whiskey voice cuts off your wayward train of thought. "Y/N," he says as his steady gaze surveys your face. "This is the last day I will call you by that name. You understand?"

You pause and bite your bottom lip, then bob your head the slightest bit. Afraid to speak till he commands it. The words he just said resound in your dazed head, followed by the echo of your wholehearted _yes_ , the silent answer that you're aching to express. You have no need for your old name, here in this world; all you want is for your lord to shower you with dirty words. To call you by the most degrading terms he can. Acting out of basic instinct, drawn inevitably down, as if by gravity itself, you start descending till your knees have touched the ground, head bowed, wide gaze lowered in deference, shutting your mouth tight and clasping your hands.

Dean looks down at you for a few seconds. Just a few seconds—that's all you are worth. Likely less; nothing more.

"Tell me, Y/N," he orders, standing from his throne, taking a few slow steps toward you where you kneel upon the floor. "Have you ever worshiped anything... or anyone... ever before?"

_Oh God_ —the savage darkness in his tone... it fucking _kills_ you. Thrills you to the core and chills you to the bone. Your voice is weak within your throat, scarcely a whisper. "Yes—yes, sir."

At those words, a faint furrow forms in his forehead, a slight groove in each of his gorgeously golden-brown brows. His head cocks to the side, the emeralds in his eyes shining bright as he stares you down. Almost as if he's... curious. Almost as if he's _jealous_ , though you know that such a god as him could have no cause for envy.

Cursing yourself for your stupidity, you hasten to explain just what you mean. You've only ever worshiped Dean. To every question, he has always been the answer. "For longer than I can remember... I have worshiped you, my lord."

And then he smirks at you, full pink lips lifting in a sinful twist that makes your fucking toes curl. "Silly little girl," he snarls with a rasp that makes your heart beat ever faster. "No—you've worshiped an idea. You've worshiped pictures. But until this day, you'd never met your master."

It hits you now that you are soaking wet, just from the sheer force of his words. _Seriously_ — _what was God in heaven smoking when he made Dean Fucking Winchester? Such a sublime, supremely sexy bastard..._ You bite your lip, ashamed for even thinking of your king in such crude terms. "I—I am sorry, sir..."

"For what?" Dean interrupts.

_Mother of fuck, you love the way he shuts you up._ Like you're a desperate little idiot, a good-for-nothing slut. Lower than that—like you are nothing. Full stop. Always have been. And you know it, when you answer him. "Sorry for... for everything, my lord. My king."

He considers you for a moment. Then his hand starts reaching toward your face; you forget how to even keep breathing. "Mmm. ' _Everything_ '..." he echoes as he props his royal forefinger beneath your trembling chin. "That's a lazy excuse for an answer to such an important question, don't you think?"

_Well, um_ —Dean Winchester is _touching_ you—skin against skin. You're incapable of thinking anything.

"Everything..." he says again, as his finger begins to descend, drifting dangerously downward. "Such a... cheap little word." 

Your head tilts back a bit, on instinct, as your king traces a line toward the hollow of your throat, torturing every inch of your tender skin with nothing but the sting of his perfection. You adore the way it hurts.

"Cheap as dirt," he growls. You get the sense now, somehow, that he's speaking more of you than of that lazy little word. You're sure of it, dead sure, after what he then utters next. "Pathetic. Worthless."

_Yes, sir. Yes._ You accept just what he says, just what you are, in abject silence. To His Highness, the response is always yes.

"See, sweetheart—sometimes... words can _hurt_ ," he mutters, as he swiftly shifts his hand into a fist around your neck, encircling it tight, hard. Tighter. Harder. "They can be used to tease... to torture... to inflict pain... and to turn it into pleasure."

_Good God_ —touching you like this, Dean is already teaching all you will need to know, ever. Telling so well, and showing even better.

"Just how they are used..." he continues while ruthlessly squeezing the life out of you, "...determines just what they are worth."

Your reverent gaze remains fixed on his flawless face as he strangles your throat. His fist releases just before you choke. You almost wish he hadn't stopped— _almost_... and yet it's not your place to ever wish for anything, you know.

Something compels you then to speak; just what, you aren't sure. There is a fire in your heart, one that you've never known before. "Is—is that true of us too, sir?" you murmur, all your vocal cords still throbbing from the brute force of his fingers. "True of all your worshipers? That how we are used, by our master... is the measure of our worth?"

For whatever reason—maybe none—Dean didn't shut you up this time, you realize, while looking up at him with wide unblinking eyes. Instead he had just... listened, for a moment. Even if he'd known he shouldn't. 

Before breaking the brief silence, just then, he licks his lips and blinks. Considers you again. As if you're something worthy to consider. "Speaking out of turn," he scoffs, reminding you that you are not. And yet something about the way he cradles your face, for a fraction of an instant, seems to go against that thought. Almost as if that unknown fire in your heart... in his as well, it seems to burn. "Sweet little thing. You have so much to learn."

Your burning heart pounds hard and fast, each beat a prayer that you hope won't go unheard. "Thank you, my lord."

Without even speaking, he asks with the look on his face, the deep green of his gaze, what you're thanking him for. His thumb traces your lower lip, to catch each word that pours.

Yet words will never be enough, to give breath to the answer. The breadth of your gratitude toward him, the depth of your love. "...for more than I can say in words."

_The love is so deep that it hurts_ —though only on your own end, to be sure. Whereas for Dean Fucking Winchester... love is of no matter. This house of worship is supposed to be a place of pain and pleasure, a hotbed of hardcore sex, a den of sin so dirty that it's pure. You'd known it, the moment you stepped through the door. And you need to serve him, worship him, in that way, as you came for, right now more than ever before.

Dean reads your mind, the way he can by virtue of being so damn divine. It's only to his own that he is blind.

You had thanked him for more than you could say in words. His thumb upon your bottom lip begins to slowly slip inside your open mouth, now, as he answers. "Mmm. Then don't say anything, you filthy fucking whore," he dominantly purrs, lips curving up into that shadow of a smirk that never fails to fucking kill you, fill you to your deepest core. "Don't say a word. 'Cause that ain't what this pretty mouth of yours is for."

_Oh God. Oh fuck. You love him so damn much_. The sight of him, the scent of him, the magic of his touch... with his thumb slipping over your slick lower lip, your impulse is to suck. But before you can engulf him in your loving mouth, he softly pulls it out. You've never felt as empty as you do right now. From where you kneel down, you gaze up at your king with a dumbfounded pout. "W-what..."

Gemstone eyes glowing, he moves his hand away from your chin and then curls his fingers in a come hither motion, urging you to rise to your feet before him. "Stand up."

Powerless to resist when he beckons, you shift your weight onto your feet—which isn't easy when your knees are all shaky and weak, your limbs a graceless mess, your every move unsteady. But when he reaches down to help you up, one hand winding around your waist, the other gently cradling your face... it feels like everything inside of you and all around you falls right into place. His gorgeous eyes align with yours, seeing inside you in a way that no one ever has before, as if there's something more he's longing to explore, within the mirror of your loving gaze.

It's beautiful and strange. Here in the presence of His Highness, your existence should be nothing but a state of endless subspace. Not... not _this_.

His perfect lips part, but he doesn't say a thing, as he leans in toward your face, claiming your heart with just one kiss, sealing your fate as just what you already are: forever his.

Something inside him shifts, just then. You can feel it, in this moment, and it feels like... _everything_. Almost as if your kiss has awakened the mortal, the man, within this divine king. It's maddening to even just imagine such a thing. You should know you won't have to imagine for long, though. As soon as the moment begins, the god in him compels it to end.

Dean has claimed your heart only to break it. He pulls away as if you are the worst mistake he's ever made, as if he's aching to unmake it. When he speaks, his words cut deep, shaking his head as he deals wounds that you can tell will never mend. "This... this never happened."

Then he turns upon his heel and walks away, crushing your whole being to dust within his hands. It's taking every ounce of all the strength you've ever had, to keep yourself from dying, right that instant. So as not to spill your blood and stain this sacred house, you'll have to hold the shattered pieces of your heart together somehow, even when you can't. "Yes, sir. I understand," you will yourself to murmur, wishing you could simply sink into the floor. "I will take my leave and... and never return again."

" _What_?" he utters, as if stricken by a sledgehammer. As if your words had made no motherfucking sense. As if that were the stupidest, most terrifying thing he'd ever heard. It's pretty far from the response that you had been set to expect. His voice is different, when he addresses you by your name then. "Y/N. You will return to me whenever I command."

You blink, raising your gaze to face your king. He's looking straight at you again, in all the ways he fucking _shouldn't_. The deep green of his gaze makes it hard for you now to form words. "But... but what you said, my lord, just then—I thought... I thought I had been... spurned."

Dean dips his head then, with a soft breath of a laugh that rips your shattered heart in half. And then slowly begins putting all the damned pieces together again. "You really do have much to learn."

Apparently you have to learn all of the countless ways that he can fucking ruin you.

"To think I meant..." his voice trails off, just at the thought. He won't finish the sentence. "Y/N, that couldn't have been farther from the truth. I'm keeping you. You are to stay. At least another day. It's just... it's just that kiss; it was a gift that you had not yet earned." 

He steps closer and sweeps his thumb across your trembling lower lip. You can feel fire course through his veins into yours, a sweet holy fire that heals as it burns.

"Some slaves of mine spend all their lives without experiencing something so divine," he earnestly continues. "If—if any of them knew..."

Just what compels you to respond, the way you do, just then... you have no fucking clue. "What's it to you?"

_Oh shit_ , you think, the instant that you've said it. That had been beyond stupid. You had meant... well, hell, it doesn't make a difference, what you meant. The new shade of the fire in the king's gaze makes it clear that you are fucking screwed.

In a desperate panic, you sink to your knees again, fumbling and frantic, head shamefully lowered. "I—I am so sorry, sir, for speaking out of turn..."

"You're not excused," Dean snarls down at you. "Do you _want_ to be spurned?"

"No...!" you whimper, deeply hurt just by the impact of that word. "No, _please_ , my lord..."

"Then you will _never_ question me again," he rasps, grabbing a fistful of your hair to yank your skull back, so that he can deal your cheek a brutal slap. "Prove to me that you understand."

What happens in the span of the next few seconds... it's all a blinding blur. First, breathless from the slap, you prove your understanding in the only way you can: pressing your lips to his palm in a passionate kiss, moaning in submissive bliss as you worship his hand. With a dominant growl, Dean suddenly then grabs your head in both his hands, and grinds your face into his crotch, your snout rubbing against the rough cloth sheathing his massive cock, which at this point is hard as a rock. And just like that—as he lets out a feral grunt that scratches every itch within your soaking cunt... the both of you have come undone. You feel the come as it explodes within his pants, thick and hot and damp, just as your own juices spurt out all over the floor, your pussy lips bare to the air beneath your skirt. You can smell him, almost taste him through the wet denim, and _God_ , you just wish you could bite through his jeans and suck out all that sweet fucking cream... need it so bad it _hurts_...

But before you can try, burying your face deeper between his thighs, Dean suddenly drops to his knees, breathing hard and heavy as he rests his sweat-beaded forehead against yours, staring into your eyes as if starstruck, like his human heart has been hit by a truck. He sighs into the space between your lips, not brave enough to risk another kiss. "... _Fuck_."

_Fuck indeed_ , you would think, if you could. Your mind is too blown in this moment to think a damn thing. It's been fucked real good.

He softly shakes his head, lets out one of those breathy little laughs again. "That—that was _not_ supposed to happen," he confesses in a voice that's all too human. "Who... who _are_ you, Y/N?"

You pause for just a second. Human though he may seem, here in this waking dream, he's still your one true perfect king. So there is only one way to answer his question. "I... I am nothing." The only word that can live up to what it means. To what you're worth, in front of your beloved Dean.

He seems to disagree. Shakes his beautiful head, vehemently. " _No_ , you're not—you're..." but then his voice drifts off before he can say more. It's like the human in him dies; the dream ends, and reality sets in again. "...nothing. Right. Of course that's what you are."

To hammer that fact home—more to himself than you, given that you already knew, have always known—he slaps your stupid face again. _Hard_. Your field of vision fades to black, upon impact, a black that burns and flashes from behind your eyes, a night sky full of falling stars...

"Guards!" the king imperiously calls, his regal voice resounding through the walls. Leaving you in a heap on the floor, abandoned and alone, as he strides back toward his gold throne, while two loyal manservants swing open the doors and step in from the hall. You're spiraling back into subspace again, loving him even harder the deeper you fall. Knowing he doesn't give a shit about you. Not even a little, not at all. He issues orders to the guards, referring to you like the object you are. "Take this scum somewhere far. I want her to sleep all alone, in the dark."

A last vow of love slips past your lips, a lost whisper. "I love you, sir."

Dean doesn't say a word. He doesn't have to. You can tell he fucking hates you. And you love the way it hurts.

_At least he's keeping you._ You get to stay, at least another day. That's all that matters. How your perfect master uses you is all that you are worth.

In this house, and even more so in your heart, you know now that even if the force of this love fucking tears you apart... you live only to worship Dean Winchester. Your god, your king. Your everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this :) Just the beginning of a long journey of love and smut and everything in between, with the reader and Dean...
> 
> Always grateful for kudos and comments! <3


	7. Perfect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiii Deanbitches! Sorry that updates have been slower lately, but I finally got to finish this next scene, so here it is :) Hope you enjoy it!! In this scene, the reader starts to experience some of the struggles of life in the house of worship. There isn't all that much dirty Dean action, but there is some towards the end of the chapter. And there will probably be more and more in the future ;)

On your first night in your new home, the lord has sentenced you to spend it in a dungeon, all alone. Locked in a cell of solid stone. All you can do is curl up on the floor in a pathetic heap and weep. You'll find no sleep; these tears of pain and heartbreak keep you wide awake, as you cling to the love that cuts you deep, deeper than you can take, envisioning your king upon his golden throne...

A sliver of light slices through the dark, all of a sudden. At last someone has opened the door to your dungeon. You have no clue how long it's been, your sense of time and sanity completely shattered. _Not as if it matters._ Your bleary eyes blink to adjust to the brightness. Standing at the doorstep, an elegant silhouette comes into focus. It's your guardian angel, as you might've known to expect. You dare to wonder, for a second, if she's here for just that purpose— _as your guardian, to comfort and protect... to help you heal from all this pain that has you so utterly wrecked..._

It's clear that she's not, from the words she speaks next. "Well? Aren't you grateful that I've come?" Anael says, scowling down at where you're cowering in silence, like a low-down piece of scum. "You should know to greet your superiors with due respect."

"Oh, I-I'm sorry..." you stammer, shifting out of fetal position, up onto your knees. "I'm sorry, goddess—"

"Save it. Your apologies are worthless," she abruptly cuts you off, waving her hand with a dismissive huff. Her brown eyes narrow at you, studying you through the most judgmental lens. "Why do you seem upset about my presence?"

 _Fuck_. Struck with panic, you shake your head, as if to fight the fact that she can see inside it. "No...! No, Your Highness, I just—"

"Cut the bullshit, bitch. Why do you wish I hadn't come?"

You do as told, terrified of her cold, critical tone. "It's just... he said he wanted me to sleep alone."

The angel laughs, a mocking trill that echoes all along the walls. "Oh, is that so. And did you sleep at all?"

You're ashamed of the answer, of how you're aroused by the sound of her merciless laughter. Your head is bowed, heavy and low. "No..."

"Then you've already disobeyed him. Haven't you," she points out with a disapproving pout. "May as well get up and put yourself to use."

You blink and meet her gaze, not brave enough to hold it, let alone to stand up from your place. Bowing your head again, you bite your tongue and stare at her expensive shoes.

Anael lets out a lofty little chuckle. "What, are you _afraid_ of me? You shouldn't be," she reassures you unconvincingly. Then takes a few steps closer, props her polished forefinger beneath your chin, and gently tilts your face to look straight up at her. She's smiling in a way that is supposed to make you feel better. "I'm your guardian angel, remember? We're in this together."

Now _that_ you seriously doubt. You should know better than to show it... but you _don't_ , damn it. You open up your mouth and let the silly words fall out. "In what?"

That earns you a hard slap across the cheek. The sting is sure to keep your mouth shut. "Don't talk back, slut. I'd bet that kind of shit is just what got you into this dungeon," says the angel, bringing her beautiful face down to your level. You can taste the pure contempt in every word she speaks. "Now listen well. I may be your guardian, even your friend—but I am _not_ your equal."

Your head bobs in a brainless nod. _Of course she's not; she's your superior in every goddamned way..._

Anael promptly stands to her full height. Urging you to do the same, her demanding hands tug on your garment of white. From all the dirt and dust in here, and from the shame of all your tears, the once pristine cloth is already worn and stained. Of course she notices, grimacing down at you in disdain. "Anyway. Now you're going to do as I say. No matter what the king may have commanded yesterday."

It kills you just to think such a thing. Your solitude, here in this room, is what the lord ordained. He is your sovereign king. You have to do just as he says; _how could you dare to disobey...?_

"Don't be _scared_ ," she snaps, forcing you up onto your feet, pulling you by your hair. "The lord won't care. You're flattering yourself, to think he still wants you to stay. You know how many new slaves came in yesterday? Do you have any clue? More than your stupid head can count, no doubt. By now he has forgotten all about you." 

_Oh_ —with a sharp pang in your heart, ripping apart, you know it must be true...

Right on cue, then, Anael shifts gear. Playing the tender loving guardian again. It's like her purpose is to toy with you. She helps you up, brushing away a few of your stray fallen tears, as her voice melts into a soothing coo. "I didn't mean to hurt you. You just need to know your place. Believe me, your time in this house will be better that way," she says, her smooth palm resting warmly on your face, blessing your skin with her angelic grace. She leans in close and murmurs in your ear. "Just come with me, okay? I promise there's nothing to fear."

Quite the contrary—your instincts tell you that you've _everything_ to fear. Especially your so-called guardian. The way she plays with you, more like a devil than an angel, in a way... it's downright _scary_.

"Don't forget, dear: I'm queen around here," Anael proudly reminds you. "Which means that I, too, have the right to tell you what to do."

 _Well, of course she does_. Some part of you resists the thought. But you immediately brush it off. For if you were to try and challenge her, defy her claim to power... you are certain you would lose. She would see to it that, in every way, you would be fucking screwed.

So you surrender to the force of her authority, whatever she has planned to put you through. For better or for worse, given this twisted masochistic heart of yours, you're sure to love the way it hurts.

* * * * *

When you had followed Anael out of the dungeon, you had been prepared for some excruciating form of torture. Physical, emotional, whatever. That seemed like the kind of thing she would enjoy: degrading and abusing you as her personal toy. From the moment you two met, she'd given off those kinds of vibes.

But maybe you had just been paranoid, you realize. Maybe she's not _actually_ the bad guy. She is a literal angel, after all. Without another word or gesture that would make you feel inferior, she leads you down the halls, through several sets of doors, till you arrive in a sumptuous sunlit room filled with a whole bevy of other white-dressed whores. They are all hard at work—dusting surfaces, scrubbing the floors.

"New initiates spend hours every day and every night doing house chores," the angel states, not bothering to pause and introduce you to the others. "Simply cleaning this place is an honor, of course. Not everyone gets to spend hours in bed with the lord. That's _my_ job; this is yours."

You blink as your eyes sweep across the room, crowded and vast. Most of the girls are busy tending to their tasks. But you can sense that they are curious, upon your sudden entrance. That each of them will certainly attempt to steal a glance, at any chance.

Not because you are anything special—you're not, and you know that. Surely they would be just as intrigued by any other unfamiliar initiate. You're just _new_ ; that is the only noteworthy thing about you. The others must be sizing you up, placing bets on how long you will last. How much staying power you've got. Whether you pose a threat or not.

Anael interrupts your train of thought. "Well, what the hell are you waiting for? Grab a rag and get down on the floor," she orders. "It's good practice, for being of service. That is what you live for, isn't it?"

You kneel to do as bid; beside your feet, conveniently, are already a washrag and a bucket. "Y-yes, it is," you stutter as you dip the cloth into the soapy water.

"Good," the queen pronounces, smirking down at you, as if you're lucky that she hadn't ordered you to use your own tongue as a sponge. She probably should. You don't doubt that she would. But instead she just issues another command. "And _don't_ try to make friends. Don't be tempted to join in the gossip. Or else I'll have the head witch cast a spell to zip those pretty little lips."

 _Well_ , you think in silence, _at least she threw in a small compliment, there at the end_. You bow your head again, grateful and deferent. She then turns upon her heel and leaves the room. Leaving you alone in a sea of inquisitive strangers—each one a rival, you reckon, for the king's precious affection. You can hear them loud and clear, although they're speaking in hushed volumes. Trading whispers, making wagers, spying on you from all possible directions.

So you focus on your work. Scrubbing away at dust and dirt. You know it's all that you are worth. And soon enough, you sense the conversations in the room shifting away from you; you're not _that_ interesting, so after just a few minutes spent gossiping about the new initiate, the other whores are all already bored. 

After all, their time would be much better spent dreaming out loud about the lord. They bond over singing his praises, share stories about how they've worshiped and served... filled with the hope of servicing him too someday, in every way—although you know it's more than you deserve—you listen closely to their rumors, hanging onto every word.

From a nearby corner, a group of girls start speaking of the king's recent behavior. You eavesdrop shamelessly, past caring if it's rude. 

"Haven't you heard?" one of them murmurs. Her foreboding tone suggests that some kind of apocalypse has just occurred. "He's in a _mood_."

"A mood as in..." asks one of the others.

"As in, so bad that he just summoned _you-know-who_."

"Wow," another girl muses aloud. "So what brought that about? Someone new?"

You can feel all their eyes dart toward you.

Though your head is still bent low to hide your face, from the periphery of your gaze, you see the whore who had first spoken raise her shoulders in a shrug, careless and nonchalant. For a second, her eyes seem to flash pitch black; you realize in this moment that she's probably a demon. "Maybe—who knows. A ton of new girls arrived yesterday, though. That bitch was just one."

Yet another voice chimes in, belonging to a pixie-haired blonde. "Yeah, but did any of the others spend their first night in the dungeon?"

That remark triggers a whole chorus of snickers. 

At least one of the girls, not as malicious as the rest, mumbles in protest. "Oh, stop it, Meg! Now you're just stirring up drama."

That won't deter Meg and the other mean-spirited bitches—they couldn't care less. But after a few more rounds of laughter, they go back to speaking of their favorite subject: His Highness. One of them asks about the unnamed _you-know-who_ , for whom Dean had supposedly called. "So the lord really summoned Amara?"

 _Amara?_ You don't recognize that name at all. Whoever she is, just the mention of her presence sends a dark, ominous chill throughout the hall. You figure that she must be someone very powerful...

In response to the question hanging in the air, the demon who had first mentioned Amara tosses back her long black hair, then bobs her head in a deep nod. "Yes, he did. Rumor has it."

"It isn't just a rumor," says another. "I can _feel_ her through the walls. Can't you? It's obviously true."

"Good God..."

"No wonder Anael was being such a bitch."

"When is she not?"

And so they blabber on and on. All this hearsay is wracking your brain. You can't make sense of most of it; it's getting harder to stay focused on your chores without going straight up insane. _Maybe you should just try not to eavesdrop..._

But before you can explore that thought, another voice—celestial and clear, right by your ear, quiet enough that no one else can hear—cuts through the noise. "They never stop."

"What?" you gasp in surprise, turning to see a man crouching beside you, one who seems to have appeared from out of nowhere, with dark hair and sparkling eyes. His bright gaze is the purest and most vivid shade of blue, a striking hue. You've never met; his face is not one that you recognize, and yet... his voice, husky and low, you definitely know. From having heard it in your head, that fateful day when you had been selected—it's a voice that you'll surely never forget. You know it all too well. This man, this angel perched right by your shoulder, is the one and only Castiel.

He had said they never stop, and you had asked him what he means. "Gossiping," he answers plainly. "Rambling on about our king, the endless rivalry between his two queens. Everything."

"His two queens?" you repeat.

"Well, Amara is the true queen bee, officially. It's only natural, given who she is. The role that she played in creating this place, establishing a new worldwide religion built on Dean, instead of God Himself," says Castiel. "But the lord's recent preference for Anael has rendered the initial queen... quite obsolete. He only summons her to speak of business, lately. To seek her guidance on matters of importance."

So far what you have heard, rather than giving answers, has served to raise many more questions.

Castiel can tell that he has only further piqued your curiosity. He pauses and smiles at you warmly. "In time you will learn the whole story."

You hope so. For the more you know—about your king, about this house that's now your home—you somehow feel less vulnerable and alone. Focusing on a random stubborn stain upon the floor, you scrape your rag against the surface, scrubbing hard.

The angel watches, with a clear blue gaze that calms your troubled heart. "You're doing well so far. You really are."

He seems to be referring to much more than just your cleaning of the floor, but you can't quite be sure. You know you should just take the words at face value. All you can do is bow your head low and express your gratitude. "Thank you."

"There is no need for you to thank me," Castiel replies sincerely. "You are here because I chose you, because you deserve to be. I chose well, I see. And Dean seems to agree."

"Agree...?" you raise your head to face him, but suddenly he is nowhere to be seen. Leaving you on your lonesome, wondering if it had all been just a dream. A wishful vision of a visit from a kind and caring angel. The one who had selected you, proud to have chosen well...

The angel is gone, but the gossiping demons are not. Their attention is on you again. "Oh, look—now the idiot initiate is talking to herself."

You look up to see one of them approaching: the one they had called Meg. She looks down at you with her demonic black stare, the light of the room glinting off of her short-cropped blonde hair as she tilts her neck.

"Did the new girl bring along a few imaginary friends?" she teases, much to everyone else's amusement. "Now I see why the lord is keeping you around, at least for now. He sort of has a thing for crazies." 

Though your plan is to simply ignore her and tend to your chores... that's a plan that she's happy to thwart.

Now that she's standing just inches away from you, she extends one foot out toward your bucket of water and topples it onto the floor. "Whoopsy daisy..." 

The room erupts into laughter, savage and loud, as all the water splashes out, soaking your skirt and making a wet sloppy mess of your work.

"Go on," Meg taunts, reaching to pick up the bucket. You don't doubt she's about to put it on your head. Just out of spite, knowing you won't put up a fight. "Clean it up, you little klutz."

But that is when another voice—one that you know and love, above all else—speaks up. "Go back to hell, you black-eyed slut."

 _Surely you must be dreaming again_ , you think to yourself, just as you had envisioned meeting Castiel. There is no way the lord has come to your defense. _No way in hell._

But if it's true that you are simply dreaming, just imagining the presence of your one true perfect king... then the demon before you can see him as well.

Meg drops the empty bucket on the instant, falling to her knees, jaw gaping open as she gazes on the unexpected guest. "Your Highness...!"

"Bitch, I _said_ go back to hell. Dead fucking serious," he rasps, taking her head in his strong hands, thick fingers twining in her hair and tugging at the short blonde strands, dealing her face a brutal slap. "Want me to exorcise your sorry ass? Or would it hurt less if you just dismiss yourself?"

 _Oh God_ , you think in silence as you watch, arousal pooling in your crotch—he looks and sounds so fucking _hot_. You've never witnessed any damn thing as erotic as this.

Meanwhile, Meg looks downright terrified. Rightly so, in her position as the victim of Dean Fucking Winchester, vicious and pissed. "No, _please_ , my king... to be dismissed—"

"Yeah, worse than dying, isn't it?" he snarls, ripping off her dress in one swift motion, then manhandling her trembling body, slamming her against the nearest wall. "Good. 'Cause death is better than a whore like you deserves. I want this punishment to _hurt_. Just like it should. So burn in hell, you fucking worthless demon bitch."

 _Holy. Fucking. Shit._ Suddenly you're filled with the urge to misbehave and get him pissed, if _this_ is how you would be punished... but you then remember what will happen to the demon, once the lord is finished. She'll be banished. Never again to be welcome in his house of worship. You would rather cease to exist.

Still, this punishment _does_ look like absolute bliss. Though you sadly can't see it, from where you are sitting, you can hear and can _feel_ the moment that Dean whips out his big perfect dick. You can sense the sheer pain of the moment when he shoves it deep in her ass, hammering ruthlessly into her crack, hard enough to fucking break her in half. She may have been the aggressor, the mean girl, the bully, mere seconds before... but not anymore. The king is here, and it's his turn to laugh.

And to exorcise her ass. Send her straight back down to the pit, just as he'd said. He does just that, speaking the magical words, breathing them out in groans and grunts, in rhythm with each of his vigorous thrusts. The second that he utters the final words of the incantation... that's when he's going to fill her dirty hole with his divine, delicious come. The demon screams and weeps and bleeds for him until the deed is done, a column of black smoke erupting from her meatsuit's throat, until she's good and gone. 

You have never been so wildly aroused. And you are definitely not the only one. For every other spectator in the house, that scene was just as much of a turn-on. Before Dean stows away his massive cock and turns to leave, done with the demon and her damaged vessel, he now sees that—without even touching themselves, just from watching him punish that bitch so damn well—the whores in this room have all squirted all over the floor.

"You are all fucking _disgusting_ ," he pronounces. "Clean this filthy mess. When I return, this room is to be spotless."

His order is met with a chorus of _yes, yes, my lord, my king, Your Highness..._

And you feel shame and embarrassment, more than ever in this moment, for daring to think that he had come to your defense. _Of course he hadn't_. It just so happened that the demon was humiliating you, when he had walked into the room, and ravaged her because he was quite simply in the mood. It had nothing to do with defending your honor. You're worth no more than any other. In all honesty, you're sure that you're worth less. Your job is to obey him, just like them, and clean this mess...

"Not you. Stop," the king suddenly says. Your heart stops in your chest as he approaches, and as he then cups your chin to lift your face, softly yet firmly forcing you to meet his emerald gaze. "You didn't come. What you just saw... did it not turn you on?"

You don't even know where to begin, in answering that question...

Dean's grip on your chin tightens, rough and dominant. He knows you'll give him anything he wants. "Tell me, you good-for-nothing cunt."

On the instant, you succumb to his command; you have no other choice, bound by the spell of his intoxicating voice. "Oh, it did, my king. More than anything. But I—I didn't come... because you never gave permission."

His gorgeous green eyes blink. He looks at you the same way that he did just yesterday. _That_ way. You're sure you must be dreaming. Crazy, to imagine such a thing.

The lord does have a thing for crazies, though. Or so the rumor goes.

" _Fuck_ ," he murmurs, in a whisper for your ears alone, nobody else. "You've only been here for a day, and you're already—just..."

He slowly strokes your lower lip, before letting go of his grip upon your chin. He doesn't need to say a thing; he has already said so much, with just one touch. 

Yet still he does. And every word he says, you love. "No wonder they all hate your guts. You fucking _perfect_ little slut."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this!! :)
> 
> Always grateful for kudos and comments! <3


	8. Problem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiii Deanbitches! I know this update is super late, for which I'm very sorry... life is still keeping me very busy lately, and when I do have smut-writing time, I've been spending a lot of it on some of my other fics (including the newest [Confessions of an Ackleholic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21628087?view_full_work=true))... but I haven't forgotten about this, I promise!!
> 
> So this chapter turned out longer and more complex than I'd expected... it features more Dean than the previous scenes, and less reader — the reader is not even in the scene, actually — though she is mentioned... There is a lot of dialogue and stuff, but also some smut... anyway, I hope you enjoy it! :)

There is fear, in the heart of the lord.

It's unlike anything he's ever felt before. He figures that it must be fear, given the way that it consumes him, from the inside out, the outside in—from the core of his heart, threatening to shatter it to pieces, to tear it apart—setting fire somewhere... _lower_ , coursing through his veins and fogging up his brain, rendering everything unsteady and unclear. Just what is happening, and _why_ , he can't be sure. He only knows the fault is yours. 

This is not something that Dean Winchester, supreme god of the world, should ever be forced to endure.

Reclining on his royal bed, alone with all the troubled thoughts swarming inside his pretty head, he feels a sense of calm the moment that his queen walks through the door.

His _first_ queen, of course: the first and most faithful of all his many whores. Amara's presence always makes him feel at ease, dissolving all his doubts and worries, putting them to rest. She knows him and loves him far better than anyone else. Years ago, she had chosen Dean over her own almighty brother—God Himself—and helped the new god rise to prominence, achieving global dominance. 

Lord Winchester knows that he owes her everything... and yet he owes her nothing. He exists in no one's debt. For he was _born_ to be the king; it is his _right_ to be revered, worshiped, for being so incomparably perfect. It is the _duty_ of everyone else in all the universe to be of service. A divine duty and a precious privilege. The same is true for all his subjects, even this formidable primordial goddess. The Darkness. 

Arriving at the chambers of her king, she makes a grand entrance, clad in her usual simple black dress—full-length, a statement of her strength, sweeping the floor and casting shadows everywhere she steps. Although the lower half is so conservative, the top is sleeveless, with the front of it low-cut against her breasts, revealing the deep valley of her cleavage. Amara boasts a sultry and alluring kind of beauty, which no mortal can resist; in light of who she is, she has a supernatural power to seduce and to bewitch. 

But still she knows that she is old, that she is not enough to satisfy her king. He finds her boring, looks upon her like a used up plaything. It's only natural that a stallion like him would rather spend his time with prettier, younger women who can scratch his every itch. And he has found himself a new goddess; his preference for Anael may have begun as idle gossip, but in recent weeks, the angel's status has become somewhat established. Now Dean only summons the Darkness to speak of business and to seek her guidance. For purposes of serving as his queen, the best and highest form of service... she has been dismissed. Although it rips her heart to bits, Amara has accepted this.

The Darkness is a being powerful above all things... yet nonetheless she is Dean Winchester's complete and utter bitch.

"My king," Amara says, wavy brown hair framing her lowered face as she bows down in greeting. "You called for me."

From where he lies in his rich silken robe, amidst a plush pile of pillows, the lord leisurely lifts himself onto one elbow. His emerald green orbs glare down at his former queen expectantly. "I did indeed. Now fall upon your knees and crawl to me."

"Yes, my lord," she murmurs, dropping immediately to the floor and crawling forward on all fours. She reaches the foot of his bed, stopping to rest her head on the edge. Her mouth begins to water at the sight of his bare soles and his exquisite toes, all smooth and sweaty, sweet enough to eat. "Oh, how I've missed these perfect feet..."

Dean snickers down to see the shameless desperation of his spurned queen, a quick nod of his head signaling that she may proceed. "Go on, bitch. Feast," he teases, luscious tongue sliding beneath the perfect ridges of his pearly teeth. "You look like you've been fucking starving for these feet. You know it's barely been a week?"

"I do, my king. And yet for me it felt like centuries," she professes, cradling his ankles in her worshipful grip and caressing his heels with her soft, loving lips, kissing the hardened skin repeatedly. "I would know, being as old as all eternity."

His chest rumbles a bit, with a low quiet laugh. "Well, hey—gotta say that you don't look half-bad, for an old fucking hag..." 

Though Dean is king and typically behaves accordingly, expressing himself with an air of utmost royalty... once in a while he will say something like that. Sometimes he speaks just like the casually charismatic heartthrob that he used to be, before the whole world saw the light and bowed before his absolute superiority. All tongue-in-cheek, snarky and flirty. Needless to say, of course, those little flashes of the golden-boy-next-door, with such a charming sense of humor, just make all of his obsessive whores adore him even more. 

Dean and his old queen carry on like this for several minutes. Until her tongue and lips have lavished every inch of his delicious feet, sucking his gorgeous toes into her mouth twenty times each, at least. With this heavenly feast, she'll never quite be finished. Especially when the lord keeps dishing out dirty talk, mocking her for how badly she wants his big cock, slipping out of his robes to start stroking himself, reminding her how he abandoned her sorry old ass to replace her with somebody else. Hammering home just how pathetic she is. His degradation sends the Darkness to a deep state of submissive bliss. 

Yet she can sense that her beloved master is already getting bored of this, fed up with all her service, and she knows that he had called her to the palace for another purpose.

So she then pauses and shifts, reluctantly pulling away from his feet with a loud, sloppy smack of her lips, sitting back. "As much as I would love to stay for hours worshiping your perfect body while you treat me like a worthless piece of trash... I know that you summoned me here for business, Your Highness. So perhaps we should talk about that."

The king grumbles, disgruntled but apparently still in the mood to be a little playful. He holds his massive cock out, aiming it toward Amara's mouth. Beckoning his obedient servant to lift herself onto the bed, watching her settle into place between his beautifully bowed legs. Then his hands descend to grope his heavy balls and spread his muscular butt cheeks, well aware of how the crevice of his asshole always made her so damn weak. "Can't we talk about business while you stroke my cock and lick my sweaty ass? Thought the sister of God would be able to multitask..."

"Oh, God knows you don't have to ask," she instantly replies, diving headfirst between his thighs, rubbing her snout into his crack, slobbering ravenously on it as she wraps both of her fists around his throbbing dick. She pumps his thick shaft up and down, hungry tongue sliding in his entrance, swirling all around. Then she presses her lips to his perfect asshole in a passionate kiss, over and over again, pausing between kisses to discuss business, before plunging back in. "So what's bothering you, my sweet king? Tell me everything."

The lord reclines into his bed, lifting both arms to set his hands behind his head, releasing a long satisfied sigh, closing his glorious green eyes, leaning back to more fully relax as his dutiful slave goes on servicing him. Steady waves of pleasure pulsate from his crotch and all throughout his godlike body, coursing through his sculpted limbs. 

_It's so much easier to just exist like this_ , he thinks, _in a state of complete peace and bliss... to just forget about the issues that exist outside this room_... and yet he can't. He can't forget about the issue. About _you_. And Dean knows he should talk to the Darkness about it; that's why he had asked her to come. "Well, um—I think I might be having some... kind of... problem."

"Mm-hmm..." she hums, spreading his sweet pink sphincter open wider with her thumbs, to make more room for her adoring tongue.

Dean licks his lips and grinds his hips, scraping his ass harder against her filthy face. "I just—hell, I dunno what to think, what to say..."

Amara briefly pulls her mouth off of his crack. "What is her name?"

He blinks, taken aback. "Huh?"

"The problem," his ass-worshiping whore says again, mumbling words into his dewy skin while rimming him. "Does she have a name?"

Sometimes Dean really hates the way his first queen knows him so damn well. Now he can feel another strange sensation, unfamiliar and foreign to him, forming deep in the pit of his stomach—just what it is, he can't quite tell—a little twinge of something like... _embarrassment_ , or _shame_. 

_Ugh, fucking hell_ , he groans in silence to himself. _Hell fucking no._ "Uhh... a name?" he echoes, staring blankly at the ceiling, glad that his slave is buried far too deep inside his ass to see his blushing face. "You know all the bitches who enter this place ditch that shit when they walk in the gates."

Amara sighs, with a slight roll of her dark eyes. As she comes to realize that her king is not going to let this discussion go smoothly, she moves her face off of his ass once again, opting instead to drop open-mouthed kisses all along the strong, tense muscles of his thighs. This way it's easier to speak, when she's not busy smothering her head between the tight hot crevice of his cheeks. "Yes, they ditch their 'real' names when they come. And those names are forgotten. Identities lost and abandoned, as if the girls never once had them. Yet somehow... you can't forget this one. Isn't that the problem?"

 _Well, damn._ Dean decides that there's no point in trying to hide, or to fight the truth lying inside, when the Darkness has always been able to read through his heart and his mind. So he gives in and makes his confession. "Her name is Y/N."

Amara pauses for a moment. At this point she has lifted her head off his body, away from the bed; she can see his beloved face from this position. She studies his fine chiseled features in silence, then makes a request, though the words leave her lips as more of a demand. "Say it again."

Right this instant, the lord could have exiled her from his kingdom, for daring to issue him such a command... but he doesn't. He doesn't protest, for some reason, as his former queen shifts her hand, bringing her palm softly to rest above the heart that's pounding hard within his chest. He doesn't protest—yet he can't understand the demand, the request. A whisper slips off of his soft lips, bewildered and breathless. "...Why?"

The Darkness smiles, warm and bright, her other hand rising to trace his flawless face in an affectionate caress. "So I can see the sacred light, that she ignites inside your eyes."

 _Oh shit._ Whatever this... this motherfucking 'sacred light' is, Dean does not like it. Not one bit. 

"Hell, no," he mutters as he shifts position and flips over, turning his back to her, so that he's lying belly down upon the bed, glad that his fluffy stack of pillows can provide a nice safe space to hide his head. "My eyes aren't a damn light show."

Amara chuckles fondly, leaning in toward his body as she leaves a line of tender loving kisses down his spine. "Fine. Then why don't you just go ahead and close those pretty eyes, lie here in bed and just relax. Maybe I can chase all of your problems away by massaging this beautiful back, while my mouth keeps on worshiping your perfect ass... Would you like that?"

Both of them know she really doesn't have to ask.

In a matter of seconds, she has him trembling on the mattress, just moments away from the edge, as the skillful motions of her hands and her mouth have his hips rocking rhythmically into the bed, his enormous cock straining against the fine silken sheets, soaking deeply through all the soft fabric beneath, with the precome that's dripping like mad from his throbbing pink head. This is all meant to be helping him forget. _But instead_... well, the effect is quite the opposite. There is only one thought on his mind that is driving him so goddamn wild, heart racing, dick aching and wet...

"Tell me, my king," Amara coaxes him. "Right in this moment... what are you imagining?"

 _Oh, fuck—he won't... he can't_... the thought of admitting what he's thinking, _feeling_ , it's just... so much more than he can fucking stand...

But the Darkness doesn't stop what she is doing. No, of course she doesn't. She just keeps goading him on. "Acknowledging the problem is the only way to overcome. Embrace what you imagine. Let it happen. Just... give in."

 _Damn it, her words are doing things to him. Working wicked dark magic or something._ Before Dean even knows what hit him, your name escapes his lips unbidden, in an outburst of repressed passion, just then. "Y/N..."

And all the floodgates in his heart, the heart of the divine god who has always been so damn _human_ , are suddenly bursting wide open.

The Darkness can sense it. Repeats her request, her demand. " _Yes_... now say it again."

And he does, then. Again and again. It's as if he's no longer a god. Just a man.

At least some part of him is still clinging to being a king. Though it seems like the Darkness is set on erasing that instinct from him. 

Every cell in his body feels fluid as butter and light as a feather, as she gently flips him back over. Keeps on talking and touching and teasing and torturing him. _That slick heat has to be her throat going down deep on his dick, yet that sensation from beneath must be her tongue inside his ass, breaching the rim—as if her sinful mouth is latched on everywhere at once_ , he thinks. Although it's hard as hell to think, when somehow, even while she's swallowing him down, that hypnotizing voice of hers is _still_ speaking. 

"So this problem..." Amara sensuously hums, "she makes you... _feel_ things."

Right now Dean just feels hazy and numb—the sound of his own voice within his dazed head has become... something else, somewhere far from himself, just a soft, distant buzz. "Yeah, she does."

"You admire... and adore her..."

"Mmm, so much..."

"Would do anything for her..."

"Uh-huh..."

"You two only just met, yet already you can't get enough..." the Darkness goes on, every word, every touch, so damn smooth that it's _rough_. "It feels like... feels like..."

Well, in this very moment it feels like he's going to _die_ , and then—

" _Ughhhhh_ ," he groans out, hard and loud, on the edge of release at the very moment that her hands and her mouth leave his skin, all of a fucking sudden. All his pent up passion just left hanging out on the ledge as she swiftly pulls off. His breath splutters and puffs, whole body quivering and quaking, as he gasps and blinks, entire field of vision floating somewhere past the ceiling, past the stars and far beyond heaven above. "Son of..."

"Dean," Amara calls him by his mortal name, then, which should be a grave sin. But it isn't. Instead it just snaps him back into the moment. Everything about this moment is just... _different_. Above all else, the words she says next. "You are falling in love."

 _Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Yes of course he is. Shit._ That is all he can think. _He undoubtedly is... he is falling..._

But then again... he fucking _can't_. So he isn't. It's as simple as that.

After all, he is still king. Has always been. And always will be. _Nothing_ can take his crown away from him. Nothing and nobody.

 _Least of all you._ He wills it to be true. It's all that he can do.

Lord Winchester just steels himself against his issues, snickering down at the Darkness, cold and heartless. " _What_?" he scoffs, with a dismissive huff, paying no mind to all the pain inside his chest—and crotch—simply acting as if he can shrug it all off. "No, I'm not."

Amara sits back on her heels, to watch her king run far from everything he feels, determined to deny the obvious. "Dean. It happens to the best of us."

"But I'm a fucking _god_."

"Yes, and I am the Darkness. The first and most powerful being that ever existed... yet love struck my heart—struck it _hard_ —nonetheless," she says, pressing her hand to her own chest, locking her eyes on his, so beautiful and so beloved. "When it strikes, it cannot be resisted."

Dean knows it. Denies it. "That's bullshit."

"You know that it isn't," she tells him in earnest. "You _feel_ it. You wouldn't have summoned me here, if you didn't. It's new and it's different. It fills you with _fear_ —"

At that word, a switch flips in the room, energy suddenly dark and hot as the king moves to take back his kingdom, swiftly shifting gear. 

"Now you shut the hell up, or I _swear_ I will show you a whole other level of fear," he dominantly sneers, reaching to grab the goddamn Darkness by the throat and bring his savage lips right up against her ear. "Do I make myself clear?"

Amara swallows. Takes a pause. Some part of her is sad, to see her precious king fighting so hard against what he is feeling... but some part of her is not. Some part of her, if not the very heart of her, with him, is nothing but a shameless slut. His dominance is all she'll ever want. 

"Wow—now it's been so long that I almost forgot just how much I love pissing you off..." she responds, voice as slick as her soaking wet cunt. " _God_ , that's hot."

"Oh, as if you could ever forget it," Dean growls as he pins her down onto the bed, wasting no time as he begins groping her tits, thumb sliding down her heated body to tease at her clit. "You love every damn thing about me. Always fucking did. And you know that your baby bro _God_ ain't got nothing to do with it."

Now it's his turn to send her to some other place, deep into the abyss of subspace, as he rips off her dress and aggressively straddles her chest. Wedging his massive dick firmly in the hollow of her cleavage. Dean always gets off on reminding his old queen that she is nothing but his weak little bitch. His cock is so damn _big_ that even before he begins thrusting his sturdy hips, already the tip of his dick is bumping forcefully against her thirsty lips.

"Now finish what you started, you pathetic piece of shit," he orders just before he starts to fuck her worthless tits. "Filthy fucking pig. That's it. I wanna feel the goddamn Darkness swallow down this big fat dick."

***************

In a matter of minutes, he's finished.

The Darkness slips quietly into her tattered black dress. "So, I guess this... this matter of business, which you summoned me to address—"

"There is no fucking _business_ ," Dean cuts her off, quick and rough. "You are dismissed."

She knows that she is. So she simply submits and begins toward the exit, and yet... there is more to be said. As she reaches the door, Amara turns to look upon the lord once more, his gorgeous body fully sated, where he lies spread out in his sumptuous bed. "You must know—this dark secret is one you must never admit. Though I wish you'd accept and embrace it yourself, you must tell no one else. Certainly not your new favorite angel."

Dean snickers at her in disgust from far across the room. "Jealousy doesn't suit you well," he snaps. It's so much easier to vent out all his anger, all the negative sensations coursing though him, onto her; it makes no sense to hate himself. Not when he is king of the universe, proud and perfect. For pissing him off so damn much, she deserves this. 

So Dean lets loose and lashes out at his old queen like a damn savage, the merciless beast that he is, talking down at her as if she is a literal sack of garbage. The Darkness has already served as a dumpster for his holy come; he may as well also make use of her as his emotional baggage dump. "You look and smell like fucking hell, you dumb old bitch. It's _sickening_ to even be in the same room, with such a worthless piece of scum. Now get your sorry ass out of my kingdom."

Though the divine sting of his degradation never fails to bring her to her knees, Amara knows she has to stand her ground, just for now, to remind him of the truth, no matter how he shoots her down. It's what he needs. "With all due respect, Your Highness... this is honestly quite serious. If your new queen should ever discover this secret—if she even just _suspects_ it—that would not end well. For any of us."

Some part of Dean knows that he needs to hear her out. He hasn't forced her exit, not just yet. But still, he will try his damnedest to resist every word that comes out of her mouth. "Like I said: there is no fucking business for her to suspect. No damn _secret_."

"But there is. And you know that I'm the only one you can trust to keep it," Amara insists. "Your new queen—she is nothing like me. I'm older and wiser, you see. All that matters to me is _you_ , Dean. Truly. Whereas the angel... she may love you, but she loves herself as well. Anael never was fit to be queen."

"And who are you to judge her worth?" the king fumes down at his spurned lover. "She brings me pleasure, more than you could ever. Gets my dick wetter. Every damn thing about her—from her body, to her face, to her angelic grace... she is just _better_. She's the one that I prefer. And if you love me as you say, then you should know that's all that matters."

The Darkness has the strength to take these brutal hits. But she can also hit back, when the moment calls for it. "I would believe that... if _you_ truly did."

Dean blinks in shock at her impertinence. " _Excuse me_ , bitch? One more word off of those disgraceful lips and you'll be permanently banished—"

"Oh, spare me, Dean," Amara interrupts. She is still a primordial goddess, so she has little patience for this. "You may pretend to care about the angel's honor, jump to her defense, just for the sake of hurting and humiliating me... but please. We both know that you really bear no love for your new queen. Just as with all your slaves—except for one, whose name I shall not say—like all the rest of us, Anael as well is nothing but a pretty piece of property to you, just a toy to enjoy and abuse."

The king finds himself silent in face of the truth.

And the Darkness continues, diminishing her favored rival. "That's all she is, you know. The angel with the fancy wardrobe, all those fashionable clothes, every piece tailored perfectly to fit her ego... right down to the pretty little meatsuit that she chose—her lovely vessel—heaven knows she wears it well. But all she ever really offered you was something new. A pair of perky tits prancing around in pricey shoes. You know it's true. You know as well as I do."

Dean has been biting his own tongue. But he cannot let this go on; it has already been too long. "You done?"

"If you want me to be, then I suppose it's so," Amara gives in, bowing her head low in a genuine sign of submission. "I just hope that you know... that the truth is a powerful thing. More powerful than any king."

"The only truth that's clear to me is that you've overstayed your welcome," Dean replies, flames of contempt roaring inside his gorgeous eyes. "I'll say it once, and only once again, so bitch, you better listen: get the fuck out of my kingdom."

The Darkness looks lovingly at him once more, before turning to walk out the door. "Yes, my lord," she answers, unsure when—if ever—she will earn the right to return.

Though she hates to admit it, Amara as well is afraid of the truth she has learned. She remembers that when God Himself, her own brother in heaven, surrendered to this new religion, he had done so on one condition: that Dean Winchester must never fall in love. _For if he does_... there will be cosmic consequences. There is a sacred curse, a cage that will be broken, a lock shattered open. The whole damn godforsaken world will fall apart, just as fast and as hard as the lord's lovestruck heart.

And everything will burn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you all enjoyed this!! :)
> 
> Always grateful for kudos and comments <3


	9. Proof

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiii so sorry again that this update took a while... still busy with life + other fics, but I always love writing this one, promise! Hope you enjoy it :)
> 
> P.S. This chapter has some smut, but not very detailed, and not much. It's still mostly dialogue/plot. Which is funny because when I first started out with this fic, I had thought it would be like, 99% smut :P It may go more toward that direction in some future chapters, but I guess we'll just see where the story takes us!

"It's all your fault."

Those are the words that wake you up with an alarming jolt, soon followed by a sudden splash of water, freezing cold. 

You stir and blink, your bleary eyes adjusting to the light of early morning. Waking from the second night in your new home. Unlike the first, the second night you weren't condemned to spend locked in a dungeon all alone. After your first full day of service in the house of worship, doing chores and nothing more—making no friends, of course, and subject to malicious gossip, which you struggled to ignore—you were sent off to bed with all the other whores. 

And all the while your mind has still been spinning with the words uttered by your beloved lord: praising you as _fucking perfect_ , though you know you don't deserve it. He had said it so quietly, for your ears only. No one else had heard. For if they had, the jealous sluts all would have pounced on you and ripped you into shreds, you're pretty sure.

You haven't seen him, since that moment—he's been busy, you assume. With matters of far more importance than you. Despite the high praise from your king, you're convinced that it couldn't have actually meant anything.

On your second night here in this holy temple, you had slept in a communal room. A sort of dormitory hall with dozens of small cots along the walls. There are many rooms like this throughout the palace; you were naturally sent to the least luxurious of all, with other new initiates. At first you had been grateful not to be sleeping alone in a dark cell. 

But as it turns out, having company is actually unfortunate... for when your so-called guardian angel awakens you now, her actions and words are quite loud. Everyone else wakes up as well—roused by the sound, the other girls shift in their beds, turning their heads. All eyes are on you once again, and the humiliation stings like fucking hell.

Anael, as usual, made quite a scene of her arrival. Reasserting her status as queen with her entrance. She had come with a big metal bucket, which she tosses down to the ground now that she has dumped out all its contents. Bullying you in just the same way that the demon bitch had done the day before. That behavior had earned Meg the wrath of the lord, leading to her own permanent banishment. But that is the difference: for Dean's favorite angel, no such punishment is in store.

The empty pail clatters against the hard floor, as what little is left of your dignity shatters, if you even had any more. You're just glad that the bucket was full of ice water, not anything... worse. As it well could've been. Anael's brown eyes gleam at the sight of you shivering, drenched, and she shakes her head, snickering at your expense.

"It's all your fault," she says again.

Though you have no clue what she means, you know better than to defend yourself against the queen. "I-I'm sorry..."

"No, you're not," she scoffs, flinging the soggy white sheets off your cot. 

You shift in your humble bed, pulling the hem of your dress further down your exposed legs. Overnight the flimsy cloth had rumpled somewhat, while you'd tossed and turned, dripping wet, dreaming of Dean like a poor little slut. "But... but what—"

"Don't even _think_ about asking me what you've done wrong," Anael interrupts. "Last night I had to lie alone in my own room. All thanks to you. You know how long it's been, since the last time the queen was forced to spend the night without her king? Do you have any clue how long?"

Surely that's a rhetorical question, so you won't attempt to respond. The angel reaches down to grab your upper arm, her grip savage and strong.

"Our lord summoned the Darkness back. He spent the night with that old fucking hag," she snaps, glossy red lips twisting into a grimace. She's visibly sick to her stomach just thinking of it. "Whatever business he had to discuss with that bitch, he didn't even call for me once they were finished. _That's_ how bad it is. He's never been... so... so _affected_ like this, and it's all happening after I dragged your sorry ass into the building. I knew I never should've brought you in."

She slaps you hard across the face, punishing you for unknown sins. _How could she possibly believe that you're to blame, for having this effect on your beloved king...?_

"What do you have to say about that, you dumb piece of trash?" the queen asks. "Nothing? Bet you're thinking to yourself that this is all just a coincidence. Just bad timing. That you're blameless and innocent. Tell me—is that what you think?"

You bow your head and bite your lip. Though you wish to obey, you don't know what to say...

Boiling over with rage, Anael grabs your skull to yank it back in place, angled straight up at her so she can spit onto your face. "You worthless little skank."

She smears her spit across your skin, smacking you viciously across the cheek again, then smirking as you flinch in pain. Any attempt to resist is in vain. Especially since you are actually _enjoying_ this, in some dark corner of your sick and twisted brain—the part of you that lives to be abused. Though the abuse you really crave is from the one and only Dean, in some ways you can feel his power streaming through his queen. If he were here to see this scene, the lord would probably get off on watching his beautiful lover torture someone so inferior, being so brutally mean.

The evil angel laughs down at your masochistic ass, reading your mind, it seems. "You know, the truth is—I don't even care if you had anything to do with this," she speaks in a sinister hiss, her voice as hypnotic as it is heartless. "Whether or not you caused this mess. All that matters is that Dean is fucking _pissed_ , which means that I am too, and _damn_ does it feel good to take it out on you."

Shameful though it is to admit, you understand; you're such an easy target, such low-hanging fruit. Abusing you, because she can, is just the natural thing to do.

"You're just the easiest to blame," she states. "Whatever I dish out, I know you'll take. Whether you're innocent or guilty, all the same. Something about you is just... so easy to _hate_..."

"Anael," a familiar low voice booms from across the room, just then. It's not your king—it's the one other voice in this place that you have come to find comforting. The voice of the one who quite honestly acts a lot more like your guardian, rather than your assigned angel.

The queen turns to face him where he stands in the doorway. She narrows her eyes in annoyance and places her hands on her hips. "What are you doing here, Castiel? Shouldn't you be off scouting the world for new whores to bring home to our lord, as you do every day?"

The blue-eyed angel does not seem intimidated by her condescending ways. "The lord prayed to me. And unlike you, I always come when he prays."

Anael flips her auburn hair and struts across the room, all up in fumes. "Excuse me, _what_ did you just say...?"

"The king summoned you this morning."

She pauses, mouth open. "N-no, he didn't. I would know."

Castiel glances at the sun outside the window, telling time by its position in the sky and by the angle of the shadows. "About... two and a half minutes ago. You're already running unforgivably late."

"There's no way—"

"You missed his call because you didn't have your ears on. Apparently too busy lashing out at someone," he says, azure gaze briefly looking your way. "Couldn't even hear your king, over your own internal seething. That was why Dean summoned me from far across the earth, to fetch you in person and pass on his word. He knew you would be too proud to listen to anyone else; I am the only angel who outranks you in this temple, after all."

"Outranks me?!" Anael huffs furiously, approaching him where he's leaning against the wall. "Sweetie, I'm the fucking _queen_."

Castiel frowns and shakes his head. "Some queen you're turning out to be. Lest you forget, Your Fucking Majesty, I love our king much better than you ever did. He knows it's true. He trusts and values me far more than you."

She brushes past him, storming out the room. "Back off before I crush your feathered ass to dust beneath my brand new Prada shoes."

You hear those fancy heels clacking against the marble floor, footsteps fading into the distance as she hastens down the hallway toward her waiting lord.

Castiel casts his clear blue eyes upon the room of novice slavegirls sitting upright in their beds, the faithful worshipers that he'd selected, staring up at him in silence.

"Well, good morning, dear initiates," he cheerfully says, bright gaze lingering on you for just a fraction of an instant. "And good luck making it through the day, at this rate. For it seems that this whole place is falling to shit."

***************

"You're late," the lord states, his voice raised in anger as she finally sashays into his chambers.

Anael didn't need him to remind her. Shutting the double doors behind her, she slips out of her expensive jacket with a calm shrug of her shoulders, elegant and nonchalant. Unfazed by the king's rage as he smolders. "I can afford to be. I am the queen."

From where Dean lies naked reclining in his royal bed, his eyes flash dangerously dark green. " _Don't_ push your luck with me."

"Oh, I'll push whatever I want," the angel responds. "Ain't that why you love fucking me?"

Smiling seductively, she steps out of her shoes and slips off her silk dress, stripping down to the delicate lace lingerie that she's wearing beneath, joining him in bed, moving sensuously over his body, becoming the air that he breathes.

... Or that's what she is _supposed_ to be, at least. His goddess, the one he desires and needs, the only lover who has ever brought him to his knees. Though of course Anael knows that deep down, Dean is always the only supreme god in town... she likes playing around. In all her time with him, she has found that Lord Winchester secretly loves to be teased.

He loves fucking her, more than anyone else. Ever. _Doesn't he...?_

Right in this moment, for some reason—one she doesn't dare admit—she feels unsure. She couldn't help but notice, in the instant that she leant down over him and pressed their bodies close together... his almighty scepter didn't even stir.

The king sneers at her question, as to whether he loves to fuck her. His indirect answer is just as direct as his lack of erection. "Love is a worthless word."

"Oh, yeah? And why would you say that?" the envious angel asks, gritting her teeth, grinding into him harder. "Because of _her_?"

Dean blinks and uncomfortably shifts in his bed, moving from underneath her and sitting up. "Because of—who— _what_?"

The queen furrows her brows, narrows her eyes, still straddling his lap to keep him anchored in between her thighs. "The whole house is talking about that new slut."

He pauses just a beat too long, his gaze the most bewildered shade of green. "I don't know who you mean. Tons of bitches are new to the scene."

"Do I _really_ look that dumb to you?" she snaps, punching him in the chest—just a light tap, but still, it's something that no other girl on earth would dare to do. "Don't pull that kind of bullshit on me. You should have more respect for your queen."

"Respect my _ass_ ," he rasps, suddenly swiveling to pin her down onto the bed, one hand wrapped tight around her neck, the other tangling in her hair to yank her head, making her gasp as he angles it back. Reminding her which one of them is truly dominant. "I'll pull whatever shit I want, you stupid fucking cunt."

And he sure as hell does, ravaging her the way she really loves. Fucking the sassy angel back into submission, in every position, till she is nothing but a bag of holes bursting and dripping with his sweet heavenly come.

The king and his queen then indulge in a long makeout session, once all of the raw filthy hard sex is done. Kissing and cuddling with him is naturally a privilege reserved for her alone.

The angel revels in that privilege, the feeling of being the lord's one and only main bitch. Convincing herself that she is. But she wants him to _prove_ it, which is why she makes this request, still in need of assurance that no one will challenge her throne. "Send her home."

"No," he answers immediately. _Too_ immediately. In a way that cuts her—honestly cuts them both—to the bone. 

What would hurt even worse, is the fact that while lying in bed with his queen, he has been... thinking of another. Dean is sure that Anael, ever the jealous lover, would much rather die than ever let that happen to her. So she doesn't need to know.

To them both, his impulsive reaction to sending you home had been horrifying. _What the hell does it matter? Why does the thought make his heart crumble and shatter?_ He wonders what's wrong with him, struggles to say something that will erase this whole problem, and reinforce his sovereign status as king. Even though there's no such thing to say. "Sending her away... that wouldn't prove anything."

As the queen shifts, the soft glow of candlelight flickering in the room glints bright and golden against the pearlescent come splattered all over her tits. "Wouldn't it?"

Her big beautiful breasts look especially fucking exquisite like this; she knows it, but he doesn't even notice. Just stares up at the ceiling with distant eyes as he replies. "Tons of sluts get dismissed on a daily basis. It's just... the usual order of business. Besides—if I really did... _love_ her..." his voice falters with the insufferable weight of the word, "which you know makes no fucking sense, but if I thought that there was even any chance that I might fall in love with someone... that's what I would do, right? Get rid of her?"

She shifts again to bring her cleavage closer to his face, because she has to try. "Why?"

Anael never was very bright. 

At least she's bright enough to figure it out a few seconds later. "...oh," she utters once the realization dawns on her. "Yeah, I guess so. Although..." 

Shifting yet again, giving up on attempting to bring his attention to her gorgeous breasts, she just curls closer into her king and starts sliding her hand down the smooth skin of his sculpted chest in a tender caress.

"If you _were_ really falling in love..." she says, teasing his perky pink nipples with her skillful fingertips, "just dismissing the bitch wouldn't be enough, to avoid all the—you know. All of those consequences. Would it?"

Dean clenches his jaw and swallows, trying and failing to gulp down the big lump of dread in his throat. It feels almost as big as the lump in his crotch that inevitably grows whenever he thinks about you. "Well, it would be the most and the least I could do. Just to try to protect her. I mean, if... if I wanted to."

Anael feels his majestic cock stiffening and twitching, dumb enough to think that it's her doing. "I suppose that's true."

He lifts himself into a semi-upright position to sit back in his sea of sumptuous pillows, pulling away from her touch as he moves. "So, there we go. You have your proof."

"Oh, no I don't," she gripes, reaching out for him as if for dear fucking life, latching her arms around his neck and grinding her dripping wet cunt against his thigh. "I think I'm gonna need a little more from you."

He groans and rolls his royal eyes. "You greedy slut."

"You love me for it," she quips, leaning down to begin worshiping his beloved body with her talented tongue and her lavishing lips. The word she had just spoken weighs far too much, and the moment she says it, she knows it, sensing when his muscles go tense. She's not entirely oblivious. "Ugh, you know what I meant—not _love_ , but..."

In this instant, Dean can't help but give in to the temptation to lie back and let her service him, to satisfy him sexually all over again, which is honestly only satisfying when he imagines that she is Y/N. 

And the king shouldn't have to resist giving in to temptation. Should always be able to take what he wants, what he loves. So that's just what he does. It's not the real thing, just indulging in his guilt-ridden and gut-wrenching imagination... but for now, that will just have to be enough.

And so he grabs his lover's head and shoves it down, sudden and rough, toward his massive throbbing cock. "Shut up and suck."

***************

"I have an idea, Dean."

She says it while lying in bed, arms resting lazily above her head, legs spread, while her king treats her naked body like a fucking feast, the sweetest damn thing that he'll ever eat. With his beautiful face buried deep in her pussy, he can't even bother to stop and look up when he speaks. "Yes, my queen?" 

In all their time together, he's never devoured her so fucking passionately. As he worships her body, some part of her knows that he must be dreaming of another. But just thinking of that rips her pride in half, ripping apart all her dignity, making her feel so impossibly worthless and dirty. _It's just a goddamn paranoid delusion, just this mortal vessel causing some kind of stupid human confusion_ , Anael tells herself desperately. It's insanity, and she'll be damned if she lets it spiral any further. She is Dean's fucking favorite, his queen, and he can't live without her.

But just to be sure, she must make another demand of Lord Winchester. "I know how you can prove that you _really_ don't care about her."

With a sigh of frustration, Dean finally pulls his mouth off of her soaking wet cunt, then slides up her body to straddle her chest, his firm muscular ass positioned right above her breasts. "Okay, _fine_ , bitch—if you fucking insist..." he mutters as he settles his weight onto her tits. A naughty smirk quirks up his luscious lips; he figures now that making light of all this heavy shit is the only way he can survive this. "...I'll give her a goddamn Cleveland Steamer."

With an exasperated laugh, she rolls her eyes and reaches up to punch his chiseled abs. Still playful as ever, but compared to all the other times she's dared to strike the lord, this punch is just a little harder, meaner. "Are you shitting me? Literally?" she jokes back. "No, that'd be more of a reward for that pathetic little whore. If she should be so lucky..."

Smiling sadly, he lifts himself off of her body. "So you still don't believe me?" he asks as he slumps down beside her in bed, feeling hopeless and weak. 

Anael is right to doubt him, obviously. All he feels toward himself is doubt and disbelief. And _hatred_ , more than just a little bit. Hating himself for having used the angel in the way he did, just now: making sweet love and eating her out, all while dreaming of somebody else... because that's the closest he'll get to being with Y/N, before saying farewell. He had hoped to find comfort, imagining you in his bed. Yet now he just feels that much farther from you, that much worse instead. It feels like everything inside of him is fucking dead. 

Come tomorrow—unless his sorry ass can find a better way, to make this problem go away—to even hope to keep you safe, he'll have to let you go. That much he knows.

His queen just might have something else in mind, though.

"Oh, I do believe you. _Of course_ I do," she coos, draping her arm across her precious king to hold him close, pretending it's the truth. "But well, you know... can't hurt to have some fucking proof."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this! :)
> 
> Always grateful for kudos and comments!! <3


	10. Pleasure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiiii Deanbitches! Soo this chapter is a little shorter than most, but it's been a while since I updated this fic, and I really wanted to post! This is a scene between Cas and Dean, with smut and fluff and angst and stuff. Hope you enjoy it :)

The lord's most faithful angel comes whenever he is summoned. Sometimes he comes in more ways than one.

But on this occasion, the purpose of the prayer that Castiel receives from Lord Winchester... is far from pleasure. The king has called him in to his chambers for quite another reason.

As the angel arrives, he stares down at the scene on the floor with sheer horror in his wide blue eyes. The grace within his veins runs cold as ice. "My lord, what—what have you done?"

The almighty lord stands by the edge of the bed, both his hands stained a harrowing shade of dark red. At the feet of the king, with an angel blade deep in her heart and a shadow of black ashes spread in the shape of her wings... she lies dead.

It is a rare thing, for the king to ever show what he is feeling. But in this instant, the expression on his flawless face evinces all the torture in his soul and all the turmoil in his head. His pain runs deeper than the passing of his lover—it affects him, to be sure, and yet the reasons that had driven him to slaughter her affect him even more. Within his downcast emerald eyes there lurk so many words unsaid.

He looks so wounded and so vulnerable. In a way that, up until this day, would have been unimaginable. Just as would have been the death of Anael. 

Seeing his lordship in this frame, the angel cannot help but feel compelled to call him by his name, rather than by some lofty title. "Dean..." he breathes, crossing the room toward his king as he sidesteps the fallen queen. "What happened here? What does this mean? I know it's not my place to question, but if there is anything you wish to tell me, I am here to listen."

Dean bites his lip and shuts his eyes, heaving a shaky sigh. Pressing his palm against his furrowed forehead, he steadies himself, takes a seat on the bed. Although part of him doesn't wish to speak, in this moment it feels like the weight of his silence is making him weak. _Maybe words will hurt less._ Maybe he can attempt to be honest, even if certain truths weigh too much to confess.

As he replies, he doesn't dare to look down at the angel on the ground, her final tears still glinting in her eyes, glassy and lifeless. "She demanded something of me that I couldn't give," he explains, his voice frayed as he chokes back his anger and pain. "And the shit that she threatened to do, if... if I didn't... in that moment, I was just—so goddamn _furious_... I couldn't let her live."

It breaks Castiel's heart, to see his beloved king falling apart. To see such tragedy and agony befalling this divine god of a man. He sits beside him, reaching out to touch his shoulder with a soothing hand. "I understand. I do not doubt that she deserved to meet her end. Whatever you have done, my king, as in all things, was with good reason. Anael must have threatened something unforgivable, to bring upon herself such punishment as this."

Dean bites his lip again, his guilty hands tense, clenching into restless fists.

The angel watches, recognizing the fire burning in the heart of the king as just what it is: love, deep and definite and deadly dangerous. Not for the victim—for someone else not in this room. That fire had been what inflamed him, what made the lord so goddamn furious. 

Castiel notices. "So this is serious."

"Of course it fucking is," Lord Winchester spits the words bitterly off his sweet lips. "The king just killed his queen."

"You know that is not what I mean," Cas responds in earnest. Yet he cannot resist his impulse to lighten up the aura of doom in the room, to take some of the crushing weight off the king's chest. "This isn't just a game of chess. And in any event—Henry VIII did it centuries before you, Dean."

That pisses the lord off; Castiel had known to expect nothing less. Dean snaps back, his tone raspy and rough. "Is this _really_ the time to be making lame jokes about boardgames and history?"

The angel nods and smiles, not at all worried. He has comforted Lord Winchester through times of stress before. "Often the best cure is a pure, immature sense of humor," he answers, calmly caressing his king's sturdy shoulders. "You know, I think you might've been the one constantly cracking stupid jokes, in any other universe..."

"Maybe in any other," Dean mutters, green gaze dim and lowered. "But not in this world. That's for sure."

Cas accepts that perhaps this is no time for lightness and laughter. Perhaps sometime after—once Dean has managed to get over the passing of his former queen, his most favored lover... and far more importantly, learned how to live with his love for another.

After a few minutes together alone with the angel, letting him massage all the tension from his chiseled muscles, easing the deep ache from his bones, the lord pauses and clears his throat. Gestures toward the body on the floor. "Would you, um... get rid of her?"

"Yes, my lord. But first..." Castiel murmurs. It's not very often that he is invited into the king's chambers; he's unable now to hold back his desires. His advances will be spurned, he figures. But he _has_ to inquire, now that he is here in this room... "Well, I—I assume... you're in no mood for... pleasure...?"

The response he receives is straight out of his wildest dreams. Dean's eyes are bright again, in this moment, that godly gorgeous green that glows and gleams. "Bitch, I'm _always_ in the mood for pleasure."

 _Heavens yes_. Dean in the mood for pleasure is the motherfucking _best_. And it's what he deserves, to be worshiped and served, in such moments of pain as this, now more than ever...

The king knows it as well, as he settles in to be pleasured by his favorite angel. "I'm Lord Fucking Winchester."

***************

It's been a while since the king took any pleasure from his most devoted servant. Or from any other man. _A damn long while. May have to arrange for these visits more often_ , he thinks to himself with a satisfied smile. Though he still typically prefers women... the lord cannot deny he really fucking likes this angel's style.

"Holy _hell_ , Castiel..." he sighs as his bitch finally pulls his lips off the massive scepter of Lord Winchester, looking up at him with such pure adoration in his sky blue eyes, extending his pink tongue to lick all the creamy white come from his chin, then shifting to press kisses all over the king's trembling thighs. "That celestial mouth sure knows how to serve me well."

"Oh, this—this is just a humble vessel," Cas mumbles into Dean's sweet salty skin with a quiet, self-effacing chuckle. "You know, I'm so humble I don't even mind if you were picturing someone else."

The lord echoes the chuckle and smiles. It's admittedly true, that during this whole session of pleasure and passion, he couldn't help thinking of... you. Something his former queen would _never_ let him do, not even for the price of all the world's designer shoes. 

But as for Castiel... there's not a jealous feather in this angel's body or soul; Dean can tell. His faithful bluebird is the opposite of Anael. Above all else, the king's happiness is what he values. So Lord Winchester tells him, in a gentle coo: "And that's why you're my favorite angel." 

He lets his slave shower his beautiful body with long sloppy kisses, for several more minutes, all along the strong muscles of his sculpted legs, the sacred crevice of his sweaty ass, and his glorious cock as it throbs into softness.

"All right—I should turn to some business," the king finally says, patting Cas tenderly on the head as he stands from the bed. The angel purrs in bliss, pleased to have done his duties down on his knees as the lord's devoted pet. Dean reminds him that his duties aren't done yet. "And you should dispose of this mess."

"Yes, of course yes," the angel abides, riding high on the feeling of being so blessed. "Thank you so much for letting me serve you, Your Highness..."

The king is so damn gracious that he even lets his slave give his delicious perfect dick a farewell kiss. "You're welcome, bitch."

He dismisses the angel with one last command: to send someone else up to the royal chambers as soon as he can. Eager as ever to obey, Cas discreetly disposes the fallen queen's body somewhere faraway, and then hastens to fetch the head witch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this!! :)
> 
> Always grateful for kudos and comments! <3


	11. Curse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiii Deanbitches! So by now I think I have included this note in all or most of my other fics, but for anyone who may not have seen those since the last time I updated this, in the midst of these dark times all over the world now I just want to say that I pray you are all staying healthy and safe <3
> 
> Anywayyy I know it's been forever since my last update! I'm sorry and I hope this one is worth the wait :) It sets the stage for the nature of interactions between Dean and the reader in upcoming chapters... which are likely to get smuttier and smuttier ;)

The king is not pleased.

He presides over a whole kingdom of slaves who live to give him what he craves, worshiping him down on their knees. And yet in all his days... Dean Winchester has never needed _help_. He is disgusted by the word itself, by the entire concept. When all his many subjects offer up their services, of course, the lord accepts. But that does not mean that His Highness is in _need_ of such assistance; he has never needed anything from anybody else.

Yet now this problem that you've caused... Dean does not see how it can ever be resolved. Not unless the most powerful witch in this house gets involved.

She arrives in his chambers as soon as she's called. "At your service, my lordship," Rowena says in her distinctive accent, clad in a form-fitting cobalt blue dress, flame red locks draping over her shoulders as she bows her head low in deference. "How on this fine day do you wish to be worshiped?"

Dean cuts straight to business without letting himself get distracted. "I need you to whip up some serious magic."

"Ohh, just _how_ serious?" the witch inquires, dark eyes sparkling with deviant desires. "May I suggest, perhaps, the full-service fellatio experience? The sweet sensation of a thousand mouths at once upon your big, majestic—"

"No, none of that," he snaps, impatient and dismissive. "I am in need of something... different."

"Different?" the witch repeats, clicking her tongue against her teeth. "However different it may be, my lord, your pretty head can rest assured, that I would conjure all the magic in the world to suit your pleasure. Do just say the word!"

The king sits down upon his bed and shakes his head, running his fingers through his rich golden-brown mane. "Well, it—it's not so much a word," he nervously explains, voice lowered with the heavy weight of shame, "rather... a name."

Rowena takes a pause, then nods as realization dawns upon her swiftly. "Ah, I see. I should have figured this would have to do with _her_. The pretty new arrival has caused quite the stir."

"How is it everybody knows just who she is?" Dean grumbles in annoyance, throwing up his hands. Clearly pissed that your name is on everyone's lips, already the subject of so much house gossip. He rises and crosses his room toward the window, as the witch follows, to join him where he stands. Gazing out upon the vast expanse of all his sprawling lands, all he can think of is one woman. How your very presence threatens now to ruin all his plans. "I... I never would've wanted this."

"Wanted what, my king?" Rowena dares to place her palm upon his shoulder, stroking softly as the lord silently smolders. "You can be honest; I would never spill your secrets to another soul, I promise. It's just... it's heartbreaking, Your Highness, to see you so vexed. Reckon you'd best unburden yourself of this stress. Tell me everything."

"I'll tell you only what I _want_ , you ginger cunt," he grunts, abruptly shoving her hand off him. "Only what you need to know to solve my fucking problem."

The witch bites down on her rouged lip, aroused as ever by the harsh degrading slur, the way each word hits like a whip, from the divine mouth of Lord Winchester. "Yes, yes of course—my sincerest apologies, sir..."

"Get on your knees and kiss my feet. And then I'll tell you what I need."

"Thank you, my lord," Rowena purrs as she drops down onto the floor, obeying his command with record speed. Savoring the smell and the taste of her king, the flavor of his flawless freckled skin, salty and sweet.

As she showers his delicious feet with kisses, Dean discusses business. "I need a spell that will prevent me from—from feeling... certain things."

With a mouthful of his perfect toes, she must ask what the lord means by this, though she already knows. "What things, my king?"

"If you can't figure what I mean, then you're the dumbest fucking witch I've ever seen."

She kisses him harder, the more he takes his anger out on her. "Y-yes, Your Highness. I can certainly make an educated guess."

The king lifts up on one of his feet, so he can crush her head beneath. "Well? Can you work such a spell? If you can't, then all that education was worthless."

Rowena cannot help but groan in pleasure, continuing to worship one foot while the other smothers her with savage pressure. "I... I am sorry, my lord, but..."

"Good-for-nothing slut," Dean scolds, while stomping her beneath his sole.

"I'm sorry, sir..."

"What are you even good for? Useless fucking whore," he roars, grabbing a fistful of her fierce red hair and dragging her roughly across the floor.

Of course, now a session of furious sex is in store. The king has anger oozing from his every pore. Pure rage is laced in every drop of sweat, in every heated breath, that pours out from his perfect body as he throws her on the bed and ravages her half to death. For all the maddening sensations swirling in his head, it's only natural that the lord should need an outlet. And right now Rowena is lucky enough to serve him as the nearest and easiest target.

With feral force and speed, Dean plows his massive cock into every hole in her tiny little body, so pale and petite—pounding her pussy ruthlessly, plowing her ass until it bleeds. Then hurls her back onto the ground so he can kick the bitch around, trampling her beneath his godlike feet. Watching her squirming there, he pisses all over her hair, inside her mouth and cunt, giving her everything a whore could ever want, all that she needs.

The king is even generous enough to let her drink his luscious come, once he is done. For a few seconds she just lolls around in bliss, licking his juices off her lips, rolling each drop along her tongue. She thanks him for the gift, the sacred privilege.

Though she may be the world's most formidable witch... deep down she is nothing but Lord Winchester's dirty bitch.

Once her recovery is finished, she then uses simple magic to repair her ripped up dress, snapping her fingers with a flourish, quick and effortless. Rowena cannot help but wonder if the lord is done with her, now that she wasn't able to provide what he desired. She looks upon him where he's lying in his bed, still gloriously naked, body glowing with a gorgeous sheen of sweat. She would give anything to cure him of the problems running through his royal head...

"So there is nothing you can do? To fix this... issue?" Dean demands, looking defeated and despondent, at the thought that he may have to live his whole life feeling what he feels for you. And dealing with the doom that will eventually ensue.

Rowena knows much, but she does not know the whole truth. Not as much as His Highness, or even the Darkness—the full extent of all the consequences that will follow if the lord should really, truly fall in love. Nonetheless, she knows enough. She can tell that he is desperate to be healed of what he feels, and she has never felt more worthless.

"Oh, my beloved king—I wish with all my heart that I could fix it, but all magic has its limits; there is nothing..." yet her voice trails off then as a timid thought enters her mind, the one small hope that she can find. "Unless..."

He shifts upon the regal mattress where he rests. "Yes?"

The witch clears her throat, nervous to give voice to what she's about to propose. She wonders if she should have kept her mouth shut... but it's much too late for that. That much she knows. "Well, I am not certain if this would solve your problem," she cautions him. "It very likely won't, in fact. There is no spell that can erase whatever feelings you may have. But there is magic that can change the way you act. Even the way you think, perhaps."

The king is intrigued; though it sounds like her offer will not provide all that he needs, it is _something_ , at least. So his interest is piqued. "Go on."

Already Rowena fears this will not end well. But there is no turning back now that the lord clings to hope for some sort of solution. "I may be able to concoct a little spell... to make you _act_ as if you do not love someone," she tells her sovereign god. "And even to _believe_ that you do not. The mind is easy to deceive; although magic cannot change a man's heart, it can most certainly affect his actions and his thoughts."

The notion gives Lord Winchester a moment's pause. "You mean to say... that I won't act on what I feel? That I won't even be aware of it, in any way? For all intents and purposes, this curse within my heart will be completely healed—like it was never even real?"

Rowena shifts, visibly anxious and uncomfortable. "Well, I'm afraid it's not _that_ simple..."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because there are all sorts of complex connections, between a man's subliminal emotions and his conscious thoughts..."

"But I am not a man. I am a _god_."

"Of course, my lord—but..."

"But _what_?"

"It's just... Your Highness, I would urge you not to rush to a solution just because your situation feels so desperate." Just as soon as she says it, she knows; those were dangerous words that she chose.

Sure enough, the king is now even more royally pissed off. He rises from the bed, grabbing a handful of Rowena's long red locks, practically tearing the hair off her head. "And I'd urge you to shut the fuck up, you pathetic little slut. Next time you call your lord _desperate_ , I swear it'll be the last word out of that filthy whore mouth. Now work this goddamn spell and then get the hell out."

"My king— _please_..." the witch weeps as she falls to her knees. "Just let me explain... this spell is more a curse than a blessing; such powerful magic will cause you great pain..."

"Bitch, you're the one who fucking mentioned it to me," he brutally reminds her, towering above his slave where she now bows her head, cowering in regret and shame. "So whatever shit may come of it, remember: _you_ will be the one to blame."

Rowena knows it to be true. Yet all the same, just as so many others do... her instinct in this instant is to lay the blame on you. To place a curse upon your name. In the exact moment she casts the spell the king demands of her, inevitably yielding in surrender, to the orders of Lord Winchester, she simply cannot help but wish for you to burn in hell forever.

She may be nothing but a whore bowing before her sovereign lord, yet she is still the most powerful witch in all the world. And this is how you made an enemy of her. Just by existing, causing problems for the king, you have provoked her deepest anger—much as you'd provoked within Dean's former queen. His main bitch, once favored above all the others... now slain by the hand of her lover. What fate will befall the head witch yet remains to be seen.

The same is true for you, thanks to this wretched curse of a spell. The magic that is bound to twist whatever love the lord once thought he felt. Will he now act as though he feels nothing toward you, frown upon you as a low-down piece of shit? Or will he believe that his love has transformed into the opposite? Perhaps you're destined to be treated as the target of his deepest, darkest hatred...

Only time will be able to tell. But one thing is certain: no matter what happens, the truth of whatever Lord Winchester feels will be hidden from you and from everyone else. And of course, above all... from himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this! :)
> 
> Always grateful for kudos and comments! <3


	12. Trust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hiiiii Deanbitches! So in this chapter, we get back to the reader (it's been a while, hasn't it!) and also meet a new character... after this one, I think there will be lots more chapters with the reader and Lord Winchester together ;)

When you arrived at the doorstep of your new life, you knew to be prepared for drama. With countless slaves under one roof competing for the coveted attentions and affections of His Highness, you expected nothing less. What you did not expect... was to be singled out, within days after your arrival at the house, and subjected to such soul-crushing trauma.

You would've expected it— _wanted_ it, even—from him. For of course you adore when Lord Winchester dishes out torture and makes you his victim. Such is the pleasure of serving the lord in his kingdom. Yet most of the abuse that you have suffered, in your new home, has been at the hands of others. All the girls seething with envy and resentment, spiteful of the way that Dean already seems to show such favoritism. They all see you as a threat, and thus a target. Especially the queen herself, the high and mighty Anael, the king's most favored lover. 

As of now, you have no clue what has become of her. But others do. For rumor travels fast, here in this palace; soon enough the truth will make its way to you.

In this moment, though, you are locked all alone in a dark dusty broom closet. There's a sink in the corner in case you start dying of thirst, but you're not sure if death would be worse than to drink from that rusty old faucet. You can see just enough from the sliver of light, filtering from outside, underneath the locked door. Nothing more. 

A nasty crew of demon bitches threw you in here. The way Dean had publicly punished the demon who bullied you earlier—stepping in as your savior, to banish and exorcise her—had inspired some fear. Yet for some of her peers, that example had not been enough to prevent their behavior, whenever Lord Winchester wasn't so near. Turns out the demonic queen bee known as Lilith is even more brutal than Meg ever was. She's left you here to rot, alone and miserable. Ordered one of her minions to cast some black magic to make the whole closet invisible. As if you've just disappeared. Now the lord won't be able to find your ass, whether he wants to or not. You doubt whether he does. If he ever noticed or cared for you once, now that some time has passed, he has surely forgot.

Looking down at the scratches and wounds on your skin, from where you've been abused by the demons—and others who joined in, including all manner of humans, and even some angels of heaven—you wonder how you were so stupid to ever believe one of them was your guardian. Everyone here in this building is in competition, to vie for the love of the king. None more so than the queen. _God, how gullible could you have possibly been?_ You're certain, from now on, that if you are somehow set free from this prison, you'll never trust anyone ever again.

It is when that thought crosses your mind that you hear a soft noise, as the closet door opens.

A feminine voice, unfamiliar yet gentle and kind, breaks the shadowy silence. "Y/N?"

You cower in fright, for the light is too bright. Having been locked in darkness for so long has muddled your sight. The stranger in the doorway seems to understand your plight. She partly shuts the door behind her as she steps inside, then says your name again.

"It's all right, Y/N," she murmurs, moving toward you where you're huddled in the corner. Her simple words strike you as honest; her footsteps are steady and cautious. "I'm not here to hurt you, I promise. I'm here to help you and protect you, from now on. My name is Anna—I'm an angel, though nothing like Anael. I'm your new guardian."

Your eyes start to adjust to the light as you lower your hand from your face, finally meeting her dark olive gaze. You can tell she's celestial, just as she says; there's a subtle yet palpable aura about her that radiates self-righteous power and grace. She does seem trustworthy enough, on first impression... then again, to such an idiotic judge, everyone does. All the judgments you've made since you came to this place have been costly mistakes. So you know you should keep your guard up. Try to have some discretion.

"I can see you've been hurt, Y/N," she goes on, looking with pity upon your bruised skin. "I'd be happy to heal your wounds—with your permission?"

You're not sure what to think. _What's the worst she could do_ , you wonder, _that no others have already done? What if she really has good intentions?_ As you ponder these questions, you study her face for a clue. Stare and don't even blink. Till you're then distracted by her hair, a rich autumn red hue... in response to your silence, she reaches a tentative hand out toward you. On instinct, you flinch.

Anna pulls her hand back, just an inch. "I know I do not yet deserve your trust; I know it must be earned. I understand that you've been burned, betrayed and hurt, by heartless monsters here among us. But for what it's worth, in heaven's name I swear I'd never harm you—well, at least unless so ordered by the lord," she smiles at the bit of humor, though of course, the statement is completely serious. "Please, Y/N, rest assured. You have my word."

The fact that she just openly acknowledged the exception for an order from Lord Winchester... inclines you to believe her just a little more. Yet still you feel unsteady and unsure. Can't help but wonder what became of Anael, though something urges you against seeking the answer.

"In case this helps, you should know Castiel is on your side as well," Anna continues. "You've spoken with him, yes? He is the one who broke the spell the demons cast to make this damned closet invisible. And suggested that I replace Anael as your new guardian angel. Castiel told me all about what you've been through; he asked me to protect you. He would've been happy to do it himself, although as you know he is often away on important business."

These words about the highest-ranking angel in the temple warm your heart, whether or not they're even true. More so than any other worshipers you've met so far, you feel that you can trust the busy angel with his eyes of crystal blue—though you have no clue why he's taken such a keen interest in you. You _want_ to believe Anna; you really do.

"I expect you might feel less afraid once I've healed you, if you would allow me to," Anna suggests, with a delicate touch on your wrist. "His Highness would not want to see you like this."

... _His Highness?_ Your poor little heart thumps and jumps from your chest, at those words. _Just at the thought of laying eyes again on your beloved lord..._

"Now I see _that_ has perked up your interest," the angel says, smiling with lighthearted grace. "There are just a few minutes until morning service; the king does not tolerate slaves being late, so we ought to make haste. Presuming that you wish to be in attendance."

It's ridiculous to even think that you would be invited to this 'morning service,' whatever it is. For the first time since Anna arrived, words at last pass your lips. "Oh, of course, yes—but I... I am not worthy of his presence."

The angel dismisses your self-deprecating despondence as absolute nonsense. "For today's morning service, the king has specifically ordered us to bring along someone new. I assume he means _you_."

 _Damn_ do you hope that's true. At this point you're done ruminating on whether or not you can trust her. For if there's any chance that your presence has been requested by Lord Winchester, nothing else matters.

Anna heals all your physical wounds with just one simple touch, once you've given permission. Now you finally feel whole again, beautiful even, blessed with the salvation of heaven. Your broken self needed that more than you knew. _So_ damn much. She provides a clean dress for you too, pristine white and brand new, as she ushers you out of the dark room and into the light—there are long mirrors lining the hallway outside, allowing you to glance at yourself and admire the view. You look better now than you had even remembered. _Such is the effect_ , you reflect, _of the sweet hope of seeing Lord Winchester..._

As you follow your guardian's lead through the palace, your heart starts to beat faster, anxious and nervous. There is a question that you wanted to ask her, before you appear before your sovereign master. "So this—this, um, morning service... may I ask what it is?"

She replies with a warmhearted smile on her lips. "You will see soon enough. For this service, comfort is the purpose. Pure comfort and worship and love. Unlike most of the sex that a slave should expect—hard and rough—morning service is tender and soft. To attend is a privilege reserved for a few: those whom the lord knows and trusts most, those he allows to get emotionally close. So we are naturally a kinder-hearted crew. Despite what others in this house have put you through, please know that we would _never_ bully or abuse you."

This all quite honestly sounds too good to be true. _Maybe because it fucking is_ , your inner cynic mutters in your head, hardened and jaded, after all that you've experienced. As you near the king's chambers, approaching the entrance... the wide-eyed ingenue in you wonders if maybe this morning will finally be different. If things will be better. If this is to be the dawn of a new chapter, in your journey as a servant of Lord Winchester.

You wonder, heart pounding like thunder... and then you enter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed this!! :)
> 
> Always grateful for kudos and comments! <3


End file.
